Chimerical
by Syrinx
Summary: an A-to-Z writing prompt for Brad and Ashleigh.
1. Fire Knows Nothing of Mercy

Chimerical: an A-to-Z writing prompt.  
Series A/N: I decided to do something new, because I like to have as many fanfic projects going on as humanly possible. I decided to create my own little A-to-Z writing prompt series for Ashleigh and Brad. Ideally, this will mean 26 stories. Not all will be Ashleigh/Brad. There might be some Ashleigh/Mike, some Brad/Lavinia, but at the core it's Ashleigh and Brad.

Fire Knows Nothing of Mercy  
Affray: n. a public fight; a noisy quarrel; brawl.  
Rating: PG-13  
A/N: during Samantha's Pride. I always found this scene irritating, and so I rewrote it with an emphasis on reality. I'm starting off as far from Ashleigh/Brad as I can get in this one. Some slight Ashleigh/Mike.

Her name is written on the blackboard in the jockeys' room. It's the first time this has ever happened, and Ashleigh, despite her nature, walks to the backside with her hands curled into fists.

The past hour has been torture inflicted by the multitudes, by those drunk on disappointment or perversely thrilled to see trouble steamrolling her way. It is compounded by her name written in messy chalk that says more than any taunt or bald-faced insult can deliver. She wants to be indignant, because she knows that she is right. She always does the right thing, after all, regardless of what others might think of her actions. Her decision was right for her horse, and in that she knows she will never waiver, but this is something she will have to prove now that the stewards have come down on Brad's side.

She rounds the corner of the shed row, takes two steps and stops. Pride stands in a puddle of water, his body soaked a dark copper. Samantha holds the colt's lead, looking worried and upset. Mike and Charlie are in the open doorway, heads bent in quiet discussion. Brad stands near the colt, his arms crossed, purposely ignoring everyone. He looks like he could kill something, and Ashleigh thinks that's just great. It is a mood to fit her own.

"How dare you."

He looks at her, but nothing on his expression changes. It is solid stone, set, and it would frighten her if she wasn't angry enough to match it with her outrage. She launches herself forward, striding up past everyone's startled expressions to meet him head on. She repeats herself, grinds the words through her clenched teeth, and he grabs her arms to keep her from plowing right into him.

"Clarify yourself, Ashleigh," he says, his fingers tight around her skin. "Because I could say the same fucking thing to you."

She wants to laugh, wants to keep trying to shove him back, but he's holding her and she can see Mike easing toward them. A little part of her is panicking, but she pushes it aside and rips her arms out of his grasp. He lets her, but gives up no ground.

"What did you say to the stewards, Brad?"

At this he smirks. "You're getting called in? Good. Finally there's something to enjoy about this day."

"What did you say to them?"

"Nothing," Brad says. "I wouldn't have to, and you know that."

"What's going on, Ashleigh?" Mike breaks in, all concern and wariness. He looks at the two of them like neither can be trusted, and she thinks that he might be right.

"There's a stewards' inquiry," Ashleigh tells him.

"For what?" Samantha gasps, like all the air has been sucked out of her lungs. Brad rolls his eyes.

"For just sitting there," Brad says, all traces of earlier bemusement gone. "What do they call that again? Oh, yeah, failure to persevere."

"Pride wasn't capable!" she nearly shouts, looking at Charlie, who shakes his head.

"Wasn't he?" Brad asks. "Exactly how was he _not_ capable, Ash?"

She flinches, and he takes the opening, advancing on her. "Because what I saw was a horse that could have won had his rider given him some modicum of support, and what I heard between my own rider and trainer was a conversation before the race that backs up every suspicion that you never intended to fully ride that colt."

"Pride ran," Samantha bites out from the colt's side. "He was amazing."

"Sammy," Ashleigh says, "please walk him for me. He's done here."

"But--"

"Go on, missy," Charlie says from the doorway. Samantha gives them a look that says under no circumstances does she agree with their decision to remove her, but she takes up the slack in the lead and urges the colt forward and out of earshot.

"So what are you suggesting, Brad?" Ashleigh asks. "That I intentionally threw the race by not using my crop? You saw Pride, and he's exhausted. If I'd used the crop we'd have an injured horse or worse."

"Don't try that shit with me," Brad warns her. "Trotting out some hypothetical is melodrama you're not exactly good at spinning, Ashleigh. You said it yourself; using a crop would have gotten a response. If you didn't want a response, you shouldn't have agreed to run him."

"It wasn't only my decision."

"Fuck, Ashleigh, you're co-owner. If you wanted to play passive-aggressive, this isn't your game. If you didn't want to run him you should have come up with a better plan than deciding that a stretch duel for the goddamned Triple Crown is the perfect time to not push our horse."

Ashleigh is speechless, a position that makes every nerve in her body twinge. A part of her wants to come back at him, insist that what power she did have in making the decision to race Pride would have been dismissed. The only thing that stops her is the knowledge that saying such a thing is an admission. It would make her position in his eyes so much less stable.

"That's really enough," Mike warns, but Brad just gives him a look that implies he shut up.

"I did the right thing," she says, almost under her breath. Brad laughs, and out of the corner of Ashleigh's eye, she can see Mike's right hand tighten into a solid fist.

Charlie moves out of the doorway, lifting his hands. "She made a gut decision, and I stand by it."

"That's great," Brad says, nodding his head up at Charlie like he couldn't care less. "Why don't you go tell the country that we lost the Triple Crown on jockey error. Better yet, we can say our co-owner here never wanted to run him to begin with, but her confidence issues led her to endangering a multi-million dollar stud prospect and probably got her suspended. Our golden girl is so upstanding, isn't she?"

And that is when Mike's fist arcs past her and connects with the side of Brad's mouth.

There's a scuffle of gravel when Ashleigh pushes Mike back, getting between them before Brad can give back in kind. She doesn't need this, and right now she's horrified when she watches Brad straighten and lift his hand to the cut on his lip. He's bleeding, and his fingers come back stained red.

With a satisfied smile in Mike's direction, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Ashleigh can't help staring at the smear of red across his skin. It's an effort to shake herself out of it and push Mike further back, because he's edging forward again based on the open invitation of a grin.

"Stop it," she says to Mike, and he stills behind her. He's thrumming with energy, and she can feel his heart beating rapidly under the palm she keeps pressed to his chest. She gives him a look and turns back to Brad.

"Just stop," she says to him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't leave either. She realizes that he's waiting, and she lowers her hands to her sides and nods. "Can you give us a second?"

Only Charlie seems to understand, and he comes up to Mike. "There's a time and a place," he tells Mike. "Now isn't either."

"I'm not leaving," Mike says, but Charlie shakes his head and pats the younger man on the shoulder.

"Let's go, kid."

Brad looks like he wants to say something, but Ashleigh shuts him up with a hard glare she's had years honing. His eyes track them as they leave, and finally fall back to Ashleigh when Mike and Charlie are out of sight.

"You'll need ice for that," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, I need lots of things," he sighs, and scrubs a hand through his hair. She doesn't reply for a moment, just lets the silence fall over them. It's uncomfortable and thick and she wants to break it, but doesn't know what to say. She's still angry, and it clouds everything.

"You'll be suspended."

That really isn't what she wants to hear him say, but she goes with it.

"How long, do you think?"

"Last year," he says, "a jock was suspended a year for giving up a race to his brother. Finished second, never went for the crop, and that was a maiden claiming race, Ashleigh."

She just stares at him, her shock devolving quickly into fear. Her eyes must have widened because he shrugs. "Or it could be month. A week. Ash, I don't want you out of commission either. I'll do what I can here, but don't ask me to help today."

"Why not?"

He sighs, and shakes his head. "I'll say no."

"Oh."

"Never do this again," he says, and she can't help the sneer that curls up her lips.

"As if I had a choice."

There it is. She shuts her mouth quickly, but it's too late.

"If we're going to do this," he says quietly, pausing to touch his lip again, doing it far more gingerly than he allowed in front of Mike, "we have to meet in the middle. If another race ends up like this, I'm not going to be the only one with a cracked lip."

"To meet in the middle, you'll have to listen to me and Charlie," she points out.

"And you'll have to ride responsibly and stop demonizing me," he says. "Think that's too hard for you?"

"Shut up," she says, but her heart's not in it anymore.

"I'm never going to do that."

"I know."

"I want Pride healthy and racing," he says. "Just like you."

"I know," she nods. "But the devil is in the details, Brad. Our methods are too different."

"Ashleigh," he chides. "Between the two of us we won a Triple Crown. We can't be that different."

She gives him a leery smile. "You'd be surprised."

"Then it's up to you," Brad tells her, turning halfway away. He looks at her darkly. "Just don't do this again."

He walks away. She watches him go, her hands loose at her sides.


	2. A Secret Told to the Mouth

A Secret Told to the Mouth  
Bestow: to present as a gift; give; confer  
Rating: PG-13  
A/N: post Wonder's Victory.  
Series A/N: I did mention that these stories are in no way related, right?

He drove straight back to the farm after the race, making the drive in half the time. The house was dark, and he didn't bother with the lights. No point to it, really. The only thing he was interested in was the liquor cabinet, and it didn't matter what bottle he found. He just reached in and pulled one out. One was his father's sixteen-year-old bourbon he'd probably been saving for some special occasion.

Fuck it, he thought. This was special enough. He opened it, aiming to go from sober to drunk in thirty minutes or less. He succeeded wildly.

The liquid was thick on his tongue, and there was almost nothing soothing about it. It burned all the way down, rolled in his stomach, and soaked in. Later, the smell of it would seep through his skin, but he didn't care about that either. He could only sit on the sweeping porch of the stately, grandiose mansion, and drown in it.

After a moment—and several swigs he took straight from the bottle, a sort of fuck you to his father for being the emotional idiot he was—he was halfway convinced that he hated her. Before, he was sure he thought of her as a passing annoyance. Now he was stuck with her. Forever. The thought was tedious enough that he threw back another swallow and liked the harshness sliding down his throat.

It occurred to him that he wasn't all that upset over losing the race. It was secondary, and he wanted to take another drink to forget that he wasn't as angry about that as he should have been, but his stomach rebelled. It was unfortunate, he thought. Part of him wasn't done yet.

When the horse trailer lumbered down the gravel drive in the distance, he shoved away the bourbon. His motor skills were mostly shot to hell, but he could still stand and walk, which he discovered the moment he was halfway to the stables.

Of course, it took a hell of a lot longer than normal, and by the time he made it to the training barn the trailer was gone. The grooms were gone. The lights were dimmed, but the door was still open and someone was there.

He was there for one reason, and it was mainly the guilt that had him standing in the dark, wanting to see his horse that he'd abandoned on the backside in Louisville. He wasn't quite sure that the guilt could override the need to not be seen, not like this. For a moment he stood in the crisp autumn night and weighed his options, deciding that guilt trumped his already fucked reputation.

So he eased into the light, and there she was.

Life really wasn't fair.

Her back was turned to him, giving him an out he should have taken. He would have had he not previously come to the conclusion that his reputation was fucked, and he wanted to see his horse. The Prince, naturally, was stabled right next to Wonder. The horses got along, which seemed endlessly amusing at that moment.

He found himself chuckling as the Prince inserted himself in the scene of filly and girl. The colt refused to be ignored, a fact to make him proud. When she smiled and reached out, the Prince licked her palm, nuzzled Wonder's neck, and swung his head around to pin Brad with his dark brown gaze.

He'd been spotted.

Then she looked over her shoulder, and the world went still. He wanted to curse. He did, and she frowned.

"Brad?" she asked, as if she was checking to make sure it was really him. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair and down his face. His hands felt numb, which seemed like a nifty trick. Everything felt numb, except for the fact that his pulse was racing much faster than normal.

"Yeah," he said, his confirmation doing nothing to put her at ease. He could see that much. She looked like a spring coiled to snap.

He eased forward, made it across the aisle, put one hand on the Prince's forehead and tried to ignore her. She, being the girl she was, didn't realize what was wrong with him until she was scrunching up her nose.

"What have you been drinking?" she asked, as if she'd never smelled it before. A good Kentucky girl, he thought. He wondered just how innocent she was. It was more than a little pathetic, for more than one reason. He was starting to hate himself for even wondering.

"Bourbon," he said, and she made a face.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. Live a little."

She just looked at him, and then back at Wonder. The little filly sniffed delicately at Ashleigh's hands. "I am living," she said. "What more can I want?"

And, god, he hated her. It was official.

"I guess congratulations are in order."

She looked up at him, and the barn light was all shiny on her dark hair. He hated that, too. He hated that he even noticed.

"Brad," she started, and the sentence died in her throat because she really didn't have anything to say. He knew it as well as she did, and he laughed a little. It probably sounded bitter to her, if the way she inched away from him was any indication.

"You know what?" he suddenly said, more than one form of courage running through his veins. This was recklessness, and he liked it about as much as he liked the alcohol roiling around in his stomach. He would never be that sure on either.

She looked up again, started to open her mouth, and he cut her off before she could say something so painfully idiotic it might make him see sense. He caught her tiny little wrist in one hand and yanked her off balance and into him. It was the easiest way to knock her guard down, because the next step was the ruthless kiss he pressed to her lips.

It wasn't meant to be nice. He kissed her, took full advantage of her parted lips, and hoped she could taste the bourbon on his tongue. Her hands fisted firmly against his chest, probably trying to extricate herself, and he retaliated by pushing right back. He didn't stop until he had her well enough memorized, which would horrify him later for two reasons, one of which he'd wind up regretting.

At the moment, he didn't care. It was just hate. He liked the outrage and shock crossing her face, liked her swollen lips, and he liked the grin that was curling up his mouth.

"Let me tell you a secret," he said, leaning back into her space. He hadn't let go of her wrist, a small detail he was late to notice, and she pressed herself back against the Wonder's stall door. The filly looked bored. Ashleigh, though, was paying attention.

"Nothing," he told her, looking her in the eye, "is free."


	3. In the Grass under Trees

In the Grass under Trees

Copse – a thicket of small trees or bushes; a small wood

Rating: G

There was a gathering of trees in the main broodmare paddock. It was a motley crew, left to the elements and the horses. She first noticed it only because she would always find Wonder grazing between the tree trunks, her honey chestnut coat dappled with shadows.

When she could find the time, she started to sit with the mare in the trees. Wonder would graze, and Ashleigh would doze in the grass with the spring breeze whispering through the leaves. When the mare had a foal, it wasn't uncommon for the baby to stumble over Ashleigh's legs and accidentally sample the dark strands of her hair that would tangle in the bright green of the grass. It was her own little place, hers and the mare's, and when she was there time stopped.

Eventually, where she went in the downtime stopped being such a secret, but no one bothered her. Not even him. He left it to her, let her bring him to it, and so it made a certain amount of sense that this was where he would propose. This was where they got married, with the spring light shining in patches down to the grass.

This was where she was now, stretched in the grass with a smile on her face. The mare stood nearby, her tail swishing over the back of her new filly foal. The baby was smaller than her others, an initial disappointment in Brad's eyes, but Ashleigh was optimistic. All she needed was the reminder of the mare, her constant, but now with one hand resting on her stomach and the other digging into the thick carpet of grass her mind was worlds away.

She was waiting for the sound of him. She would wait all day.

His shadow fell over her face, a cool slip of air in an already fresh spring day. She fought the grin that threatened to spill across her lips, was resolved to keep her eyes closed even when she heard the shuffle of boots in the thick bluegrass.

"I got your note, Mrs. Townsend," he said, and she broke, laughing at his fingers on her ribcage. She opened her eyes and there he was, hovering over her with his weight on one arm. "What are we, in high school?"

"You never get tired of calling me that," she mused, putting her hands on his sides. "Was it really so surprising?"

"Yes." He leaned down, kissing her, lingering. "It always surprises me."

She rolled them to their sides and pressed against him. Their legs tangled, grass stains added to already dirty jeans while she kissed him and nearly, but not quite, forgot the purpose of sticking that little Post-It note to the office door to begin with. She was breathless when she pulled away; evaded him when he moved in for another kiss, oblivious for the moment that it is the middle of the day and work at Townsend Acres never slowed down. They were, without fail, needed somewhere.

She hesitated. Pressed so close and hesitating seemed weird to her, but it happened anyway as she tried to remember the words she'd chosen earlier. They were lost to her, stubbornly refusing to present themselves while he looked at her curiously, bordering a little on concern.

It was time to just blurt it out.

"You and me," she said, her fingers traveling down to his jaw. "We're going to have a baby."

He looked at her for longer than she would have liked without saying a thing. Finally he narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, then shut it. Opened it again and asked, "And you're sure it's mine?"

It must have been the hormones, because she smacked his shoulder a little harder than she should have and sat bolt upright. "I am pregnant, Brad Townsend. You are going to be a father. I hope—"

He tugged her back down to him, holding her to his chest, and smiled as he kissed her.

"What do you hope?" he asked against her mouth. She pulled back to look at him, and then kissed him quickly.

"That it's a boy."

"And here I'm hoping for a girl."

"I guess we're at an impasse."

"Seems so," he said, pushing her hair from her face and propping himself up on his elbows. "But what else is new?"

"This isn't big enough news?" she asked, sitting up in his lap. He laughed quietly and followed her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressed his mouth to her neck.

"Ash," he said against her skin, kissing her. "This is big enough for a lifetime."

She stroked his fingers over his hair, and sank into him, oblivious to all but this.


	4. The Night Shall be filled with Music

Chimerical

The Night Shall be filled with Music  
Dulcet: pleasant to the ear; melodious.  
A/N: during The Bad Luck Filly, with a certain AU spin.

This is one of those parties she hates on principle. The women are decked out in formals that seem tacky no matter their expense, and the men have wandering eyes. Necks glitter with diamonds, and watches have more precious jewels than she's owned in her lifetime. The house crawls with caterers and the smartly dressed help, and her daughter and niece are swimming fully clothed in the pool.

Something is so very off about this night, and it's not even the arrival of Christina and her friends that throws her. Perhaps it's that she's there in the first place, that she was the one who wanted to come, that she's having fun. She doesn't even mind when Monty manages to get Mike to offer his opinions on a few yearlings headed to the next Keeneland sale, effectively leaving her alone. It gives her a moment to breathe, and she doesn't mind that at all.

The big band tunes blast across the sprawling brick patio, but without a partner Ashleigh decides to take a break. She climbs up to the upper deck, picking up the silk of her dress and padding up the steps in her bare feet. The deck is out of the way and therefore far less crowded. In a party where the sole purpose is rubbing elbows, congregating here would be pointless. Ashleigh likes it for the moment, leans against the railing and sips on her second glass of champagne.

From here she can see glimpses of the kids splashing in the pool, Christina and Parker floating close to each other in the deep end. She doesn't want to think of where their hands are, but she trusts her daughter and she inexplicably knows that Parker treats her like glass. She knows this not because Christina tells her, but because she just does. She supposes she has her own sources, to a point.

But Christina is still her daughter, and Ashleigh still worries. She stops just short of allowing herself to invest faith in Parker Townsend—she knows his father, after all—but watching sparks something within her that she'd rather not dwell on. She'd like to forget it entirely, but with Christina and Parker making it look so easy it's difficult to sort them from her own long lost decisions. Her own road abandoned.

She pulls her gaze away, slightly ashamed. Making a comparison, she thinks, is only human. But she's not just human. She's a mother, and that comes first.

The band falls silent, off for a break. The crowd mills, and after a few minutes she can hear footsteps thumping quietly up to the deck. Ashleigh waits for her moment of solitude to shatter, but when she turns to see the figure standing at the top of the stairs she's met with a different fate. She thinks it could be far worse, and so much better.

He stands there holding a glass of something amber and dark in one hand. He wears a dark suit like he was born to it, and his impossible cool makes her feel all the more aware of the sweat clinging to her skin. It slides uncomfortably to the small of her back, damp on the elastic of her underwear, and she knows that somewhere it is staining dark the pale silk of her dress.

She feels slovenly next to him, as always. The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile. It's not meant to be threatening, or sarcastic. It's just a smile, and it unnerves her.

"What are you doing up here by yourself?" he asks her, and she straightens her shoulders.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Boredom," he answers simply, lifting the drink to his mouth.

She watches him carefully, tells herself not to stare, but stares anyway. He silently commands it, and she really wishes she could tell herself to look away. It's just that in all the decades she's known him, she's never been able to follow such simple self-direction.

"I just needed a few minutes," she says, watching him put the crystal tumbler on the railing and settle in next to her. She hates to admit it, but she's proud that she can stand next to him and not shrink back. Always has been.

"No harm in that." He looks down at the crowd, his eyes settling on the kids in the pool. "I was thinking, you know, Belmont for Star. He needs to get out of Kentucky, start putting his genes to work."

She swallows a mouthful of champagne, and puts the glass next to his. "I agree. It's just been more convenient to keep him in the state, what with Chris being his jockey."

He looks at her, and now his smile is a smirk. "You don't need to justify your reasons behind his schedule, Ash. We just need to focus more on maximizing his potential, and less on placating your daughter."

The laugh that slips out of her is mostly expected. These are their differences, plain as day, and she accepted them long ago. She'll never expect him to understand where she's coming from, to have faith in her long term goal, however similar it may be to his own. Their paths split long ago. It will be hilarious, she thinks, if they wind up in the same place at the end.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says. "I'll take Star to Belmont. Christina can find some time in her schedule, I'm sure of it."

"Good. I've got a few horses going up in a couple of weeks; he can go with them." He nods and turns his attention back to the pool.

The band is setting back up with new instruments, less brass. She watches them curiously before training her gaze back on the pool. Christina is laughing, trying to kick away from Parker's hands that are locked around one slim ankle. Ashleigh stares at them silently, unaware that she's gone tense, her breathing quick. Brad is smiling.

"Are you going to say it, or am I?"

"Say what?" she asks, although she knows. She'd have to know.

He gives her a look. "How very weird it is that your daughter and my son have their hands all over each other."

"They do not," Ashleigh said, giving him a disgusted look that he snorts at, laughter bubbling up.

"Come on, Ash."

"Dating," she tells him. "They are dating. As far as I'm concerned they're keeping their hands to themselves."

It is very hard to say this when at that moment their children are practically pressed together in the pool. Christina's arms are around Parker's neck, and his are…somewhere. She wants to yell down at them to knock it off, and she definitely would if that didn't mean causing a scene. But, oh, Christina is going to get the talking to of the century when they get home.

Brad chuckles into his drink, downing the rest of it in a healthy swallow. "I forgot how much of a prude you could be."

"That is not funny," she tells him quickly, giving him a warning glare.

"No, because it's very true," he says, and grins as he puts his empty glass down.

"I am not," she says, and acknowledges to herself that, yes, she does sound like a twelve-year-old.

"Maybe in the world according to you." He's enjoying this, she realizes. His eyes are bright, and not from the alcohol or the music, which is starting up again in a much more relaxed tone. Couples are slow dancing on the makeshift dance floor. In the pool, Christina and Parker are still all over each other, twirling in the water to match the music.

Ashleigh shifts uncomfortably, the silk sliding on her skin. All of a sudden she decides that she hates silk, because right now it feels all too inappropriate to wear around this man. Too sensuous, too perfect, too inviting. It is all the things he was, is, and could ever be for so many people.

She knows what he's doing, and in an ideal world she'd be able to sidestep it gracefully. It's too bad that she is so very, very flawed.

"You can shut up at any time," she tells him archly. "In a world according to both of us, it's not true."

He looks a little surprised, and she feels a little thrill. Ashleigh Griffen said the last thing Brad Townsend expected. It is a minor victory, but one she takes note of nevertheless.

Of course, it wouldn't be right if he didn't try to raise the stakes.

She feels his hand close around her wrist and she jumps, almost inadvertently ripping herself out of his grasp. He lets go immediately, raises his hands unconsciously.

"Hey," he says quietly, like he's dealing with a flighty horse. He might as well be, because all of a sudden all she can think is that he's between her and the exit, which is ridiculous because he's him, and she's her. Honestly.

"Come here, Ash," he tells her, fingers grazing her wrist. "Let's do this one thing."

"Why?" she asks as his fingers make the jump from her wrist to her waist. His hand slides over the silk on its way to her lower back, drawing her up to him. She doesn't think to resist so much as question. This reaction should really be a warning. "What's the point?"

"Old time's sake?"

It's her turn at a disbelieving laugh, but it dies before it can leave her throat. The music is soft and he's being as close to a gentleman as he can get, so she lets him. She keeps a sliver of distance between them, and lets him.

Together they drift, her hand on his shoulder as she stares at the base of his throat, his jaw, his tie. Her eyes dart everywhere, only taking brief trips to his face, to his eyes, when she can build up the courage to do so.

"You know," he says quietly, his voice a low tone against her ear. "It wasn't a mistake."

"It was," she counters, because this is what she's been telling herself for years. "It would have been impossible."

"It wasn't," he says. "It could have been so easy."

She knows what he's talking about. She sees it every day she looks at Chris, every time she tries to talk to her about Parker and sees that dazed look in her daughter's eyes. It could have been simple if she'd wanted it that way, and this is probably why she's buried it down deep.

"You're you," is what she says. "And I'm me."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It makes all sorts of sense," she says. "We shouldn't talk about this, Brad."

They slip into shadows, and she knows they can't be seen. This is where they could do anything, and at the very thought her fingers clench around the material of his suit. She shifts for more space, and he just follows her. It is maddening and her heart is thudding so violently that she catches a sigh when he seems to come back to himself, says so softly, "No, we shouldn't, and it's our loss."

He lets her go, and it's no wonder. The music has stopped. He takes a step back, and another, and there is so much space that she has to curl her bare toes against the tile to keep herself stationary. Her muscles are quivering with the effort to only stay still.

She tells herself that everyone is better off like this; that the harder road is often times the one worth leaving behind. It would be so much better if he would just agree with her, if they didn't do this occasionally, have this stilted conversation that says nothing and everything as if it were all a test.

The thing is that the pull to walk across to him now is so strong it's terrifying. It's never really gone away, not with time and the fact that they belong to other people. These things can't hold down their history, can't wipe it away so they can begin fresh. Memory stretches too far back, and they both remember because neither wants to forget. But these things, they hold them at bay, imprison them with guilt, and maybe this wasn't the easy road after all.

She is so very, very flawed.

Then he makes it easy. "Our kids," he says with a winning smile, "are going to have fucking beautiful babies."

At that she laughs, and she hopes he can't hear the sob in it. It's wishful thinking.

"They're teenagers," she reminds him. "Don't go planning the wedding just yet."

He nods, pushes his hands into his pockets and just looks at her in a way that makes her lips part. It's all too much, and the flush that rises on her skin is almost unbearable in the late summer heat. She wants to leave, but she won't move. And this, she thinks, is her problem. Right here.

"Well," he says, and she remembers that yes, there was a conversation. What were they talking about? "They are our kids. I won't be shocked if they disappear to Vegas as soon as she's legal and come back married."

"I like to think they have more common sense than that."

He just smiles, shakes his head.

"I'll see you at Belmont, Ash."

He picks his glass off the railing and descends the stairs, leaving her feeling like he's taking another small piece of her with him. Ashleigh wonders how long it will be before there is nothing left, before she breaks.

"Yes," she murmurs, and watches him go.


	5. The Price You Pay

The Price You Pay  
Espy: to see at a distance; catch sight of.  
Rating: G  
A/N: during Pride's Challenge. Brad/Lavinia, implied unrequited Brad/Ashleigh.

This is her truth: everything can be bought and nothing comes without a price. This is her life, a steady stream of possessions and emotions paid in full, a whole lifetime in happiness and security because this is who she is, and this is how she does things. She considers herself lucky.

She also thinks it's a lie.

Lavinia is not a fool. The grounds of Townsend Acres spread out under her feet, and she knows exactly how she came by them. She finds a sort of calm in knowing, a reassurance that when so much else skips off the tracks she's so carefully laid, the farm will be there reminding her. This is what she's in it for.

Love, happiness, security. Bought and paid.

It's this thought that has her accompanying him off the farm in the mornings, finding herself standing at the rail of a dingy training oval in the middle of a small farm that needs a new coat of paint and is shockingly devoid of landscaping. Her heels sink in the too thick grass, and threaten to tip her over in the loose gravel. The people here lay eyes on her that indicate she is beneath them, and she wants to snap that she _owns_ them. One flick of her wrist, and these horses they all love could be somewhere else. Somewhere with lawn care and air conditioning, and she imagines the poor creatures would thank her in the end.

She doesn't say this, but it runs through her head frequently. She weathers their looks and their half-voiced opinions and says nothing because she knows the truth of the matter, and it does not lie in her favor. It all lies with him, and with _her_, this tiny slip of a girl that holds his heart in her hands.

Lavinia knows when to keep her mouth shut, but every so often she wonders who they think they're fooling. This constant back and forth is a never-ending play on hatred, and it's the eyes of everyone on Brad that make her realize how surrounded she is by ignorance.

Every so often she looks at Mike--really looks at him--and wonders how he can't see it. How he can observe them and have that look in his eyes that she sees in everyone else. It must be typical, she thinks. He is only a man in love with Ashleigh Griffen. He would only see what he wants to see, and Ashleigh is a woman on a pedestal, so far above her.

She thinks most women in her place would stop torturing themselves. She would say something, or stop trying to be so involved, relegate herself to her social calendar like so many others. Maybe it's just something about her. Bought and paid, she thinks. She owns this, could ruin it if she wanted, and it's this feeling that has her up at night, lying restless under his arm and a sheet that twists around her legs.

It is an effort to untangle herself, and when she's free she pads out of the house on bare feet, her body a silhouette in gauzy white as she walks into the darkness of the farm. This is unlike her, but for a moment all she wants is to sit on her land, undisturbed, untroubled, surrounded by the simple choice she made.

"Lav?"

She glances back, sees his form taking shape in the night. She smiles softly at the thought that he is here at all.

"Here," she says, and feels him approach. He sits next to her on the dew damp ground, puts a hand on the back of her head and tangles his fingers in her hair.

"This isn't like you."

"I know." Somewhere a horse calls out a throaty question that goes unanswered. "I couldn't sleep."

"Anything wrong?"

She wants to laugh, because so many wrongs have added up they almost feel right. That she is sitting here at all is wrong, that he is with her is wrong, that the ground underneath her feet is hers is wrong. He looks at her, and she can barely make him out in the dark. She wonders if his eyes are on her, or if they're looking past her. She thinks it's a small blessing that she cannot know the answer.

"I'm fine," she says, and it is an easy thing to say, but it is not true.

The truth is she has what she paid for. Of course it is broken.


	6. Decent Godless People

Decent Godless People  
Fervid: heated or vehement in spirit, enthusiasm.  
Rating: NC-17 for sexiness, and possibly for being inadvertently sacrilegious (somehow).  
A/N: Part one of three. (Sequels will be found in J and W.) Takes place in the summer between Ashleigh's Dream and Wonder's Yearling. Brad/Ashleigh, totally and completely, with boatloads of unspoken angst that we'll get to in J. Something to look forward to!

Nothing about this is romantic. This is what she determines the moment she reaches for him and finds her back pressed harshly against the grimy tack room wall. Dust and dirt drift in the air, glint in the florescent lights, and she breathes it in as he watches her from so many inches away.

"What the fuck, Ashleigh?"

It's a fair question. He's confused, but then so is she. The difference is that she is the instigator, and he is the one pressing her against a wall. There are shadows in his eyes. She doesn't want to know what lurk in hers.

"He's not my boyfriend," she says, and then halfway smiles at the expression that crosses his face. He leans a little harder on her wrists, keeping her pinned there.

"Would it upset you if I told you I didn't really care?"

She shrugs, flexes her fingers. "I thought it might be useful information for later."

"That's great," he says. "I feel enlightened."

"Smart ass," she mutters.

"Sometimes it's nice to be the consistent one."

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't really think she's capable anymore. The whole summer has been sideways glances and quiet flushes, a torturous succession of increasingly problematic emotions that reached a fever pitch days ago. It is hot and humid and Ashleigh is dirty and exhausted and far past the point of writing this off.

It is ludicrous.

But she doesn't really care. The year has been a lesson in frustration, and at the center of it all is her need to do something all the way or not do it at all. It is about belief, and even now she's still sure she's done the right thing. She has spent her summer on a moderately talented horse she dumped her boyfriend for, which she doesn't tell him now because she's sure he'll just laugh in her face because this is so like her. Goddess is not the horse she believed she had, but it doesn't stop her from her devotion.

She's the idealist, and he's her perfect opposition. She realizes the irony in her situation perfectly. Even now.

He doesn't ask another question, despite the fact that she didn't really answer his first one. She doesn't have an answer for him, just a sudden effort to clear the path of guilt. It has the desired effect, and he shifts into her, those inches between them disappearing as her heart beats out a frenzied rhythm.

He lets go of her wrists, and she's happy for that. There is no time for her to wonder what to do with her hands, because he's scooping her away from the wall with one arm around her waist. Her hands go to his shoulders, his neck, arms wrap around him as she darts her tongue out to taste her lips.

It is not what she envisioned when he kisses her, but somehow everything she'd thought before is immediately discarded as fanciful idiocy in comparison to this. Her back hits the wall again, and she gasps against his mouth, letting him in almost by accident. Being who he is, he takes the invitation without thought. Ashleigh lets him, drags her hands down to his chest and pulls him closer with her fingers clenched on the cotton of his shirt.

Something in her rises when he fists a hand in her hair, tugging her head back. Strands get caught in the grains of the plain wood wall, and the urge to shove at him sparks. She pushes, and he breaks the kiss with a smirk, like he expected this. But she follows his mouth, kisses him and crowds him back against the closed door.

At least he's a little surprised, if the grunt she gets out of him when they meet the wood is any indication. She has to practically climb up him to meet his mouth, and he helps her slide up his body with his hands on her thighs. This is how she's transported from aggressor to supplicant, when he turns to rest her against the first in a line of saddles, a stirrup iron digging uncomfortably into her hip.

"Brad," she says against his jaw as he moves down her neck, his hands gathering the material of her dirty tank at the small of her back, pushing it up so his fingers can trace along her spine. She shivers, thrusting up so she can run her lips back to his mouth. Her voice is all too breathy when she says, "Please."

Instead he stops, which is not what she wants at all. He's between her legs, and her jeans are heavy and gross on her skin, and she's starting to really wonder what this is going to be like when he has to go insert reality into her plan.

"We can't do this here," he says, his body countering his words when he just presses closer. She feels that all too well, and instead of snapping and bolting she is only hazy and perturbed that he's interrupting this with hesitation and talking.

"Why?"

He pauses, like he's forgotten his reasons for a moment. He runs the pad of his thumb across her collarbone, pushing aside the fabric of the tank and strap of her bra. She tightens her legs around him, just for a fleeting second, and that seems to wake him up.

"Because," he drops his hands to her thighs, and then seems to think better of it and replaces them on the saddle on either side of her. "This is the tack room, and I've been working all day. My daily routine doesn't exactly require I walk around with condoms. Fuck, Ash, I don't even have my wallet right now."

It is a slow dawning realization. When it hits her, she shuts her eyes hard. "Oh."

"Yeah," he says with a breath. She can feel it on her neck, because he's leaning into her again. He pulls her off the saddle, nearly taking it with her to the floor.

"What do we do?" she asks, taking a deep breath. She can do this. She can take control. "Where do we go?"

He looks at her oddly, as if he really hadn't expected that.

"The house," he says simply. She nods.

"Where are your parents?"

He winces. "Sleeping."

"Let's go."

"What?"

"Did you not hear me?" She takes his hand and heads for the door.

"Fuck."

She opens the door and leads him out into the dim aisle. "That's the idea."

"Who the hell are you tonight?" he asks her, walking with her out into the hot air. The locusts scream in the trees. She doesn't answer, thinking that perhaps she doesn't really know.

His room is also not what she expected. It's in the back of the house, overlooking the business end of the farm, which, if she thinks about it, is very like him. Large, cluttered, a boy's room. She's only ever seen Mike's, and she supposes this one shares much of the same components. The only difference is that Brad's bed is made. She has a suspicion that this is not of his doing. She would be correct.

The best thing about the process of getting in the house is that it's easy. There is a separate entrance in the back of the mansion, and the stairs lead straight up to his room. Thus she is saved some measure of awkwardness. Right now, she's just focused on being here at all.

He doesn't bother with giving her a grand tour, and she doesn't want one. He just shuts the door and puts an arm around her, hand on her abdomen, mouth pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. A shiver races through her, and his fingers find her skin where her tank top rides up, offering an open invitation: up or down. She decides to take matters into her own hands and turns around, tugging the hem up and over her head. The clothing drops to her feet and he pushes her back until her legs meet the edge of the bed. They tumble down.

She's ever only done this once, but her body knows what to do. Most of it is act and react, but she feels that pull to control and before she knows it she's yanking at his shirt. He helps her, sitting back to tear it off while her hands can't seem to help themselves and run from his chest to the button of her jeans.

Their paddock boots are an annoyance. Laces and zips are undone with impatience, and they are left to thud in a muddy mess on the floor at the foot of the bed. She wiggles out of her jeans, and he helps, peeling the denim off her legs so he can run his hands over her smooth skin.

She's grinning, because no matter what this grappling with clothing is weirdly amusing. It's not until the clothing is gone entirely, cast off somewhere, that she is faced with the seriousness of this. Because this is them, and no matter what they say it is always serious.

"Ash," he says, lazily dragging a hand from her neck to her breasts, thumb taking a track over one nipple until she's sure she's going to go mad. She arches, hooking one leg around him and kissing away whatever words he has left.

The fact of the matter is this: she is not the girl he knew, and this is a summer in which she's grown up. She is someone else, a girl who can want and not compromise, bend and still believe. Knowing him, he probably likes it. Of course he does. His fingers on the inside of her thighs are a testament.

Her breathing goes shallow when he strokes her, his fingers brushing slick and wet. He's gentle about it, not really knowing, and she has avoided the topic so neatly that she picks up the pace. He understands, but she can't help the trembling as his fingertips glide into her own fluidity.

It's a rhythm. In, out, again, again. His mouth is on her neck and she's so embarrassingly attuned to everything and lost at the same time, hips rising in accordance to his fingers. He coaxes her toward the fall, lips on hers, sharing breath, one hand on her waist and the other delving ever deeper. She slides into it, gasping and letting her eyes fall shut.

He nuzzles against her collarbone, nipping at her lightly as he gently pulls back his fingers. Somehow, she remembers that she has hands and functional limbs with which to move them, and slides them to his arms, his chest, across his skin to him, hard and heavy across her palm.

Condoms may be in the room, but she's somewhat happy to note that it's been at least a little while. It takes some digging in a bedside drawer to find them. She's impatient, but he rips the packet open with his teeth, and when he's there against her, she is dizzy with the knowledge that this is happening. He's slipping into her and it is slow and weighty and she knows exactly why.

Their hips roll, little shocks to clenching muscle. His fingers slide over her skin while her bitten down nails make half-moon impressions on his shoulders. She keeps her eyes open, pulls a leg up to rest against his hip, and traces a thumb over the frown between his eyebrows. His eyes blink open, and he smiles, sliding in again.

She sighs, dazed, shifts slightly and tightens around him. He kisses her, soft and demanding in a way that only they can be. He says her name against her lips, and she opens to him, meeting him, heat sliding into her belly until pressure begins to spiral out.

A noise slides from this throat, and he shoves up on one hand, pushes deep, a hand going to her knee. His hands are rough—as are hers—and she heaves up, the rhythm cresting and breaking, coming apart. It feels like she is full of rippling pleasure, lapping against him and trembling, beckoning him over until he tips, letting her pull him under.

They are sweat and sighs, lazy to remove themselves now that they're still. Finally he gathers her against him and rolls them onto their sides, exposing her back to the cool air of the house. He runs a hand down her spine, her still hot skin, and slides out of her.

She closes her eyes while he gets rid of the condom, and she tells herself that she will not jump up and run. Neither will she stay. Somehow she has to find a balance to the end of what she started, and she finds that it's nearly impossible; especially when he draws one of the sheets they've discarded over her, bunches it against her back and draws her close.

She mumbles words against his chest. "I can't stay."

"Figured," he says.

Well, so much for that, she thinks. She is still filled with the inclination to stretch, press herself to him, let her eyes drift closed in a resemblance of normalcy. It is what she won't have, not with him, and not tonight. She imagines she's not missing anything, not really. And that is the thought that roves in her head when she eases out of his grasp. He's sleeping, or so she wants to think. Her muscles ache when she stands, unused to what he's done to her, and pads around the room in search of her things.

When she's hastily dressed, paddock boots zipped, tangled hair finger combed, she doesn't make promises to herself. He asked none of her, so she'll keep it that way. No promises, because she's sure they couldn't keep one. So she slips out the door.

The heat of the night hasn't changed, but she finds herself smiling at her feet as she walks toward home.


	7. A Myriad of Mean Little Chances

Chimerical  
A Myriad of Mean Little Chances  
Rating: PG-13  
Gauche: lacking social grace, sensitivity, or acuteness; awkward; crude; tactless.  
A/N: during Wonder's First Race, Samantha's Pride, Sierra's Steeplechase. Brad/Caroline, Brad/Melinda, Brad/Ashleigh, Brad/Lavinia. This started out as a story exploring why Brad broke up with Caroline, and it spiraled into an AU romp through Brad's love life.

The moment she says it, he knows. Knows it's not what he wants, knows it's not even possible, and after that it doesn't take much. All it takes is courage, and this is the one thing he knows he doesn't have. It is easy to run, so he goes.

He stands in the shedrow, deserted, listening to the autumn rain dripping off the eaves. The Prince stands behind him, chin on his shoulder, patient as always. He doesn't feel the victory they've just gained, not in his bones, not like usual. It is lost, abnormally less, a stone chunked to the pit of his empty stomach. His mind is elsewhere, on her, unchanged.

The sound of footsteps, the click and scuttle of heels on wet gravel, drift down the barn. She's a too skinny image on the fringe of his vision, all smooth lines and sharp angles. A haze of moisture beads in her hair, glinting brilliant in the white blond strands, like diamonds. Her eyes are bright, predatory. She smiles, white and perfect.

"What are you doing, hiding back here?" It's a hidden admonishment, locked behind her fluttering eyelashes, the fingers that brush up his arm. He doesn't shake her off, doesn't snap, but takes it for what it is.

"Peace and quiet, Mel," he says, lifts the arm she's touching, but not toward her. He wraps it around the colt's neck, dragging his fingers across the Prince's poll. The colt looks at her with one deep brown eye, appraising, unmoving and silent.

"Well, that's entirely unacceptable," she tells him primly, taking her hand from him. Her arms cross, her chin tips up, her lips quirk. He recognizes it for what it is, realizes it's not an invitation without benefits.

He stands still, shrugs. "Sorry to disappoint," he drawls, and she rocks on her heels. The hem of her dress shifts and trembles around her knees.

"You can make it up to me," she assures him. He's knows he will. "Come out," she says, making it a plea instead of an order. She's not a girl unaccustomed to either.

He doesn't say anything for a moment. It lasts a split second too long because she pouts, a professional hint of lower lip.

"Unless you have that girlfriend waiting in the wings."

"No," he tells her. The word hangs there between them, and she smiles.

"Good," she says, reaches out again. "That's good, Brad."

He goes.

***

Ashleigh throws away the flowers, a thorn leaving a line of blood on her thumb. She ignores it and sucks in a breath, her sister's sobs filling her ears. When she leaves the house, she doesn't make it a point to find him. She doesn't yearn to give him a piece of her mind. She just wants it over. Wants it done and gone.

That isn't how it happens. She should have known.

*

When he looks at her, he knows he's in trouble. She's just standing there with that look of contempt he finds so attractive, which means he's so broken. Means he's grown up wrong.

The colt stands between them, his head down, eyes dull. He's not a fool, but it doesn't mean he's not so mad he can taste it like bile on the back of his throat. Her eyes are firecracker green, cutting and hot, like sparks. Everything about her flashes, coils, and he feels a visceral need to hit something hard and unforgiving until he bleeds. Until he can beat down whatever it is about her that he needs.

His fingers thrill at the thought, and she stands her ground.

*

Neither realize what's happening until it is already there. She's standing with Pride on a bright carpet of green. The colt is blissfully ignorant to the world, burying his mouth in the grass. Her hair has fallen permanently out of the sloppy ponytail she's tired of fixing. The breeze drifts it over her eyes, and she flicks it away, shakes her head and looks up, right at him.

"This is fucking ridiculous," he tells her, his hand on her arm above her elbow.

"What is?" she asks, looks up.

He shakes his head, fingers tightening around her skin. She doesn't try to run. So he kisses her, there in the yard, in front of everyone who bothers to look, and they are all looking. It's a bruise across her parted lips, a take over, and the only way she knows how to respond is to wrap her hand in the cotton of his shirt and haul him closer. To kiss him back in kind.

*

They sit outside the stall, California dry against their skin. The colt stands on three legs behind them, careful about his right foreleg. The sounds coming from the stall are at least a comfort to him. Pride moves restlessly, rustles through the bedding, and sighs a quiet breath into the night.

Ashleigh rests her head against his shoulder, looks down at her hand in his. He leans against the wall, doesn't care about the dirt and the dust, just lets his eyes close, listens to his horse, to the track in the dead of night.

"I love you."

Her words are whispers, muffled by hesitation. His fingers twitch on hers. She doesn't stop staring at their hands, and he thinks that this is really for the best when he turns to press a kiss against her forehead.

The blood rushes in his ears.

***

"The breeding manager's daughter," Lavinia says through a leer. She runs her fingers through his hair, forearm pressing against his chest. "You are something else."

Brad swallows a mouthful of scotch, sets the tumbler on the railing. The party beneath them is a forgettable mesh of silk and silver, a dull roar. He barely pays it any mind, can hardly remember why he's there to begin with. It's just a place, a way to surround himself, a method to forget. It keeps her out of sight, out of mind, out of body, and for this he is grateful.

"I can think of some choice words for you."

"What would those be?" She is all pretty smiles, a cat's grin and manicured nails. He watches her hips move, slippery in her shimmering gown. Everything about her is slick, impossible to grasp. Her whole body tips forward, eager for his definition.

"Malicious," he says. "For starters."

"Oh," she sighs, lifts a hand to play the diamonds on her neck, glance across her delicate collarbones, all creamy smooth skin and distraction. "I'm so disappointed."

"What did you want to hear?"

"Something true."

He looks down at her, tears his eyes from the party, the people. She stares up at him from under thick lashes, coy and forthright all at once. Her lips purse.

"I," she tells him slowly, dragging on the words, "am like you. Spoiled and rotten and always right."

When he doesn't answer, she asks, "What is she?"

"Better."

"And yet," she shakes her head, reaches up to trace a finger across his forehead, down his jaw. "Poor thing."

He catches her hand, pulls it away, and looks at her with enough hate to send a warning. She just smiles that lazy, self-assured grin, tips her head back like she's offering her throat, wants without realizing what she's getting.

When he tugs her into him, he knows where he is going. Her lips graze across his mouth, beckoning.

He goes.


	8. Snake, Bitch, Lover

Snake, Bitch, Lover  
Rating: R  
Hyperbole – obvious and intentional exaggeration  
A/N: through Samantha's Pride. Ashleigh/Brad.

She has so many choice words for him. Since the moment she meets him they are there, at the tip of her tongue. Rude, stuck-up, _jerk_. They flooded her upon first impression, and since then they've only multiplied. Snob. Brat.

Others mask their similar opinions behind maturity, but she doesn't have that inclination. She can't distance herself. Can't say he's only intense. Focused. _Driven_. Her mother tells her not to jump to conclusions, but she won't participate in the lie.

.

When she gets to know him better she calls him cruel. He's heavy-handed, oppressive in the way he pushes his mount. _Wicked_. She stands by with Wonder's reins in her hands and watches, stricken, at the sight. The chestnut colt plunges, and his smile is lost in the creature's wind-whipped mane.

.

_Idiot_, she thinks, when he goes galloping out of the stable yard, the bay gelding already working up a sweat from the fear. Gravel and earth fly up from the animal's hooves, and they are gone, thundering toward who knows what. Oblivion, maybe. Careless. Fool.

She worries for the horse, but they both come back mainly unscathed. The horse is sweat-stained, and thin lines of red scratch up his arm. She doesn't look at his face, doesn't think about it. It isn't because she may not have words for what she might see.

.

In all the time she's known him, he'll never surprise her. Nothing he does will break out of the box she's fashioned for him, and she has a feeling he knows just what her expectations are. It's disdain, she thinks. Indifference. She'll feel slivers of surprise when he gives her that sideways glance, that look like he knows just what she wants from him. Arrogant. _Vain_.

Occasionally, she'll feel bad for constructing the box in the first place. Her mother always tells her that she wants to see the best in people. This is wrong. In him, she's only wanted to see the worst.

.

It happens on the day he exemplifies everything she's ever expected. Impatient, conceited, turbulent, _hot_. It swipes at her from out of nowhere, molds itself out of their bitterness, shocks her to complete silence.

Betrayed.

It should piss her off. She could call him out on it, call him all the other words she's collected for him in her head. All she can find to shout are the dirty names, the ones she's never allowed herself to use with anyone, and they careen like a litany through her head. Bastard, asshole, _fucker_.

He has no right to look at her like that, not when he is so wrong. Not when she finds that she lacks the very ability to say anything in return.

So they stand. Silent.

.

The Belmont is the last straw for him. The last moment he's going to weather her self-righteous dog and pony show. He has always thought her superior attitude was amusing. So easily poked, prodded. Now he just wants to call her sanctimonious. _Bitch_.

A little part of him glories in the look she gives him after the race. The expression that she wears is one he knows so well, and when it crumbles to pieces he is satisfied. Horrified. He doesn't know which. She would have a choice word for this moment, he thinks. If only she would say anything at all.

.

Afterward he wants to be ruthless, the cutthroat she sees. He takes her aside, and her eyes flash warnings he's been ignoring for years.

"We own this horse together, Ashleigh. Fifty-fifty."

"Not with you," she says.

"Townsend Acres is me." He rolls his eyes, because this has always been such a fight. Mincing words is what she's good at. Constructing a fantasy world all for her benefit. Deluded. _Liar_.

"You can sway your father to your opinions," she says. "You can't do the same to me."

"I'm pretty sure that's not what I was getting at."

"It's where we would have wound up," she says flatly, turning away.

.

He doesn't like admitting that she's right. She's so often right. Perfect. _Virtuous_. Even when he knows it's not really the case. It makes him want to rip her down, so others can see the flaws.

It would be a waste of time.

No one sees the mars on her but him.

.

The next race is a disaster. The race after that is somehow worse. She stands next to him in the morning and worries her bottom lip between her teeth, keeps a hard grip on everything. The rail. The clipboard. If she had nothing to hold onto he thinks she'd snag his wrist in her hands and squeeze.

But that's her. His personal misanthrope. Downer. _Killjoy_.

She expects the worst, and so it's what she's always gotten from him. And now he knows she feels guilty about it, knows that this is why she hovers nearby, words she can't form always stuck in her throat. It makes it all the worse.

The colt knows. They scratch the next race, and it's not a relief.

.

"I think I should take him to Whitebrook." It's a statement with a dull edge. She's been thinking about it for a while, so much so that it's worn away the nerves that are her second nature.

"No." It's just as blunt.

She looks almost wounded. Like she expected something else.

.

Theirs is a tenuous balance, and it slowly slips all to hell. Their business partnership is commonly misconceived, twisted. His friends smirk at her from afar, implore him to fuck her and just get it over with. She bottles it all up so tightly no one she knows could possibly confuse her relationship with him for anything other than forced. Hatred. Easy as pie. He almost envies her for it.

Spite. Denial. Hunger. Heart. _Lust_.

Even with the suggestions falling off of ignorant lips, it hits him one day like a brick. It's only infatuation, he tells himself. But then she looks at him too long one day.

It actually pisses him off that she would look at him, just this once, like she has something on her mind that he can so easily guess. That she can have a ready, sensible protest if he bothered to call her on it.

_Fuck this_, he thinks.

"What?" he barks at her, and she jumps. Guilt washes over her in waves.

Nothing makes sense.

.

So it is one day that he's had enough. It is the one day she lets her guard down. She lets herself stop, finally. They're worn, spent, _consumed_.

It's dark. It would be dark, impossible to see or be seen. The training barn sits quietly around them, cavernous on the night following another of their public disasters. Her heart is beating like a crazed thing, trapped in her chest. And there's no way he can feel anything other than the slow burn of every point of his body that touches hers.

Fingertips, mouth, tongue. She leans into him and arches back, his hands in her tangled hair.

.

It's true what they say, but neither is stupid enough to call it a mistake.

So it's only a matter of time before it happens again. Wherever, whenever. It's only a matter of time before they start saying stupid, lovely shit, murmured against their skin. Things they can use against each other later, if they have to.

Angelic, beautiful, teasing words.

She shuts her eyes, smiles at the feel of him.

.

They're also not stupid enough to call it forever. Sometimes she forgets that. He never does. Pragmatist. Stargazer. There is no middle ground.

.

"_Extraordinary,"_ he whispers, and she lets out a breath.

The colt crosses the finish line.


	9. The Bodily Habit

The Bodily Habit  
Rating: M  
Inure: to accustom to hardship, difficulty, pain, etc.; toughen or harden  
A/N: This is an alternate version of _Ashleigh's Dream_, in which I am horrible to everyone. Again. This story has been a labor. It took me a long time to find the beginning, but once I located it the rest of it fell into place. So I apologize for the delay in stories! This is Ashleigh/Brad, in an angsty, hate happy sort of way. (It might be good to note that I always, always, always assume Brad went to college at Columbia.)

Every so often, Brad Townsend thinks that something cosmic will happen. Some turn of good fortune, a piece of luck, a blessing. He's due. Overdue, if he wanted to be honest. On his good days, he wants to think that he is an honest man. If he was desperate, he'd be demanding, angry, and that certainly isn't him. Not yet.

He imagines it could be, eventually. Easily. He hopes fate will come for him first.

In a way, he considers New York a blessing. The jagged Manhattan cityscape rises around him like broken teeth, and he likes the rotten smell and the steaming asphalt under his shoes. It's a marked difference, a way to be lost, and he knows with simple assurance that the city is the only thing keeping him honest.

Here, Townsend Acres is a distant memory. There is no room for tranquility, thundering hooves, stretches of pasture that blur to the horizon on gentle hills. There is no room for all of her looks, all of her assumptions, all of _her_.

But that's not right. It's not her that drives him to the city. He made this decision before her, but he thinks how odd it is that desire to stay away from home meant a desire to stay away from her. Eventually. How odd now that the two intertwine. He can't tell them apart anymore.

He cannot stand her. Based on a history of fights and misunderstandings, the feeling is mutual. They both want the same things, and there isn't enough for either of them. He knows she hates him, and he's only cultivated that loathing, tempered it to perfection, and he's done so knowingly because something will eventually break.

He will have his time, he thinks.

He will.

*

It's a chilled April day, and his feet sink into the soggy earth. The grass is a thick sea of emerald green, and the horses dot it endlessly. There is a group of trees further out, on the hill behind the broodmare paddocks, and he avoids looking at it. He knows what's there, and he doesn't have to see the fresh dirt to prove anything to himself.

That's not really why he's here.

When he got the call, the only thing he remembers is dropping his phone. It broke into two pieces, the battery skidding under the sofa and the rest of the phone clattering dead at his feet. Manhattan smiled at him outside his window.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, right before he thinks nothing at all.

He can't explain anything that he does in the next twenty-four hours. He can't explain his urge to buy a plane ticket as soon as he gets his phone back together, can't explain the plans he cancels, the plans he makes instead. He can't explain the knot of panic in his chest.

That, if he was being honest with himself, is a lie. Of course it is. He's good at lying, especially to himself.

*

The broodmare barn smells like hay and milk and horse. It smells like hope and broken promises. There is nothing more wonderful than falling under the spell of the foals, and he's done it so often, so consistently, that he is well aware of the pitfalls. The disappointments, and failures, and outright horrors that some of these fragile beginnings will see. Because he's seen it all, or so he likes to think.

He thinks she hasn't. He might be right; what does he know? It doesn't matter, not in the end. And this is the end. Right down to the freshly made box stall, and the figure he finds hunched against its wall.

She sits with her legs pressed to her chest, her cheek resting against her knobby knees. She's all dirty denim and worn fabric, her dingy flannel shirt hanging uselessly around a tank top that he is sure hasn't seen a washing machine in weeks. He wonders if she's bathed; her hair falls across her listless, open eyes, tangles down over her arm. He can't see her booted feet, tucked as they are under the bedding.

It's still straw, he notices. It's likely they will move another mare into the stall, a deserving animal ready to give the farm a new hope. It will happen as soon as she removes herself from the stall, and he and everyone else knows that this won't happen soon.

She is Ashleigh Griffen. She's nothing if not stubborn.

But this isn't the girl he knows, the girl he thinks he knew. Dimly, he wonders if she's broken.

Maybe she is. Maybe she's far gone. He looks at her, with her eyes trained on the straw, and has to stop himself from feeling disappointment.

He only ever wanted to be the one to break her.

*

"What are you doing here?" She says it monotonously, like she's barely aware of him on the fringe of her vision.

"My father called me," is all he can think to say. It's the truth, if vague. She smiles mirthlessly against her jeans.

"And you just had to come by? See the whole thing for yourself?"

"Ashleigh."

"Don't," she interrupts, lifting her head and resting it against the wall. She looks at him, hate and venom swirling in her vision, and he knows she despises this. He's looking at her like she's pathetic, and she is, and he supposes this is going to be his grand moment. This is fate handing him everything he ever wanted.

It's not good enough.

*

"Don't tell me you're sorry," she tells him. "You're not. So let's just skip it, okay?"

Irony has never been lost on him. The worst thing about all of this is that he is, deeply, sorry. "Let's not," he tells her, and she stiffens at the words. He lets himself into the stall, pushes the door behind him until it clicks shut.

"Stop." It's a warning, but he doesn't pay attention. He never has, and won't start now.

"No," he says. "Maybe I'm not upset about this for all your reasons, but that mare was an asset the farm can't afford to lose."

She sneers at him, because he has said the wrong thing. Of course, anything he could have said would have been wrong.

"Don't turn this into a financial complication," she spits, shoving her hands into the straw and pushing herself up against the wall. She stands, wobbling like her legs can't hold her, and he wonders for a moment if she'll collapse at his feet. She braces herself, staring at him. There are tear tracks down from her waterlogged eyes. "You wanted her bred to that monster. That one stallion. And I let you. I listened to you twist it all to your favor and what do we have now, Brad? What did we get out of it?"

"As poetic as it would be," he tells her, snide and snarling, "this is not my fault."

She glares at him, digging her fingers into the wood plank walls.

"And if it is," he tells her, because he can't resist, "it's just as much your fault as it is mine."

"Fuck you." She sets her jaw, her bloodshot eyes glazing in a way he's sure can only end in havoc. He sets himself without realizing it, because she shoves herself from the wall and at him, her small body colliding with his hard enough to send him back a step. Maybe two. She's light as a feather, and her wrists are bone thin as they send delicate fisted fingers against his chest.

"Fuck," she cries, hitting him hard enough in the center of his chest to send him back another step. He's surprised by that, just enough to grab her hands as she rests her forehead against his shirt, in hysterics now and crying. Her whole body shakes in sobs. His shirt will be a damp mess, and she's sagging against him, clinging until she forces him down to his knees in the straw.

She follows him down, her body coming to a rest in his lap. Her thighs straddle his, her legs splayed awkwardly, forgotten in the straw. He can feel her fingers piercing into his shoulders, pinching the fabric of his shirt. She cries, and the only thing he can do is keep her still against him, his hands at her back. His fingers touch her spine and she shifts closer, her breaths rapid and hot against his collarbone.

"Don't," she whispers through ragged breaths, her mouth inches from his neck so that it is easily the most uncomfortable thing he's ever experienced. He can feel himself respond, hard underneath her already. He'd like to tell his body to fuck off, would like to say he's horrified by his reaction to this, but she just shifts like she knows when he knows she's clueless and he's lost again.

She sucks in a halting breath, her ribs shaking and constricting under his hands. "Don't tell me you're fucking sorry."

"Too bad for you," he tells her. "I am."

"Stop talking," she orders, and to his horror he obeys. She whispers it again, just in case he didn't hear. "Stop talking."

He wants to shove her off of him, let her rot in her pain there in the stall. Instead his hands just clench around her sides when she shifts closer to him, her body coming up against his. He feels her lips against his jaw, her breath wet on his skin.

She's making a decision. He realizes it all too late.

*

"Ashleigh," he says, and she shakes her head. Her lips brush his skin, and it's an effort not to throw her off of him and pull her closer.

"No." She is the one to press closer, the straw shifting under her knees and her breasts pressing against his chest. He swallows.

"Stop talking," she repeats. He hates that he is so inclined to follow her demands. He hates her, more than anything, right at this moment.

He does nothing. She lifts her head to look at him, eye to eye. He stares at her, watches the cogs turn over in her head, knows exactly why she's choosing this path. He recognizes grief. The question is if he wants to be a part of it. A part of him wonders if he even has a choice.

She is shivering all over, and he thinks it's force of will alone that makes her mouth meet his. He doesn't have a word for why he accepts, takes the press of her lips and wraps a hand around her neck. His fingers tangle in her oily hair, and he doesn't care, not even when she opens her mouth and surges against him so suddenly their teeth clash.

This is the end. He knows it. Knows that if her hatred was all talk, it will be concrete, resolute, if he lets her continue. They sit in Wonder's stall. A barren, empty stall. She's in his lap and they are kissing as if they'd rather devour each other. There is no backward step from this. But there is no choice for him.

That's fate for you. Giving you everything you wanted with a wink and a sideways smile.

*

She tugs at his shirt, desperately, hopelessly, yanks it off his torso and over his head, off his arms with an impatience that shows her condition. He can do nothing but obey, without question, follow her quaking movements with his own surefire grip. There is a part of him that is resolved not to take the initiative. If she's going to use this against him later, she'll have nothing to grasp.

This is probably why she hates him, but this doesn't enter his occupied mind.

Her fingers trail down his skin, and his grasp her shirt. The flannel is soft in his hands, but he doesn't do anything with it. She pulls away from his mouth with an irritated mewl, her hands leaving him to shove the shirt off her arms, casting it behind her. He watches her shed her tank, the dirty white material leaving her glowing tan skin like she's shucking off a protective shell. She's beautiful underneath.

"Please," is all she says against his mouth, her tongue slipping slick against his as his arms wrap around her bare back. Hands against skin, against spine, against bra clasp. He's supposed to undo it. He knows how this works. He won't.

She's impatient, and he isn't. He's curious. Sickeningly so. He should be ashamed. Maybe he will be, later. Maybe he'll even regret it all, while she twists in his hands and is forced to take the first steps. Her breasts, small and firm against the cups of the bra, are beacons, and he traces over them with his fingers. Maybe he won't undress her, he theorizes, but he will take what she's offering.

A strangled noise leaves her throat, and she pushes away from his mouth. Her fingers claw at the bra clasp, undoing it like she'd rather rip it apart. The scrap of fabric goes somewhere. He doesn't notice, not really. Instead her hands are pulling him, her back arching, and his mouth goes where she wants it. Where he wants it. Whatever.

She bends back, so far he lets her nipple go with a wet smack. She lands in the straw with a gasp, the harsh stalks pressing patterns against her back. The impressions will be deep, he thinks, especially when she reaches forward and grabs the waist of his jeans, hauls him toward her, between her legs, on top of her with expectations glinting across her eyes.

He traces his fingers across her breasts, down her ribs and her stomach. Her shivering doesn't stop, not when she kisses him again, not when she presses his palm against her skin.

He won't undo her jeans. Won't undo his. She growls in frustration and shoves his hand away to tackle their pants. She's surprisingly deft with the buttons, with the zippers, but she's focused and he wouldn't put anything past her. Not when she's like this. When she's like this she can accomplish anything.

The straw must be uncomfortable against her back, but he doesn't do anything about it. He just watches her haul her jeans off her slim hips, her underwear slipping down with them. They can only go so far, her boots presenting problems neither even considered, but she wiggles and he shifts for her, following her movements to settle between her thighs. Her pants wrinkle down to her ankles, and he maneuvers them, her hands shoving his jeans down just far enough. Her fingers slide across his skin, onto him as she pushes away his boxers.

He twitches, reality pushing in like a spike.

"Ash," he mutters, and she hisses. Yes. Shut up. He wants to tell her to go fuck herself, but she's obviously chosen a different path. Same objective. He rears back, reaching into his back pocket to haul out his wallet. Inside there is a condom in a tired wrapper. She looks at him expressionlessly as he shoves the wallet back in the pocket it came from, barely glances at the fist in which he holds the condom. It's his fingers on her sex that drives her head back, because now he can't delay things. One moment of thought will ruin it all, and he is a man. He'd rather thinking be delayed for a while.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't want to know. Instead he just slips his fingers in and watches her gasp, writhe beneath him, her face an indecipherable painting of need and pain. He's probably right, then. He pulls his fingers gently back and watches the slithering traces of blood across the wet.

*

Trembling. He wishes he could make this hers, somehow. She's already started so much, and she will hate him so much later, but either way he figures he's fucked. So he rips the condom open and draws it down his length. He's surprised to find her fingers there after his, like she's chosen this moment to be brave again. Coward, he thinks. Even now.

She draws her hand across him, so he waits, lets her guide. He puts his mouth to use, licking one breast into his mouth, releasing it for the other. She squirms, presses him against her, slides him only so far into her before she stops with a moan.

He pushes the rest of the way. He takes this by inches, watches her face and the apex of her thighs. Her breath comes in shallow sips while he rests in her, lets her muscles wrap around him before he moves again. It's not so long before they have a rhythm, her eyes drifting to his and holding. He says not a word, because he knows. This is what she wants. A reminder. A punishment. Whatever it is that drowns out everything else, he respects and follows.

The button of his jeans presses against her skin. The zipper bites. Her ankles are bound by her clothes, but she bucks against him regardless when he picks up the pace. She reaches for him blindly, pulls him firmly over her and captures his mouth. He responds in kind, hard, like he has no option.

There is a gasp and a moment of stillness. An ache that is a blessing. He doesn't remember tumbling after.

*

Afterward he's on his back in the straw. He's limp, the condom irritating. He doesn't do anything about it yet.

She is sitting up, her fingers shaking as she reaches for her pants and panties crushed to her ankles. He closes his eyes, doesn't want to watch her get dressed. Doesn't want to watch the tears spring up in her eyes again, because he can hear them, slipping in, already trying to break the surface of whatever it is they lost themselves in.

Maybe she never lost herself to begin with.

He opens his eyes, finds her staring down at him. She's dressed, if sloppily. It's not an improvement from before. He'd like to know what she's thinking, but she says nothing. Instead he watches her look out to the aisle, like she's considering something she's never wanted to face before.

She doesn't look back at him when she leaves the stall.

He listens to her footsteps drift down the aisle. Sweat dries on his skin, and he wants so badly to kick the fuck out of something. Instead he stays in the straw, feeling the stalks press patterns on his back.

Somewhere, he hears a mare sigh.


	10. The Rush and the Glare

The Rush and the Glare  
Chimerical  
by Syrinx  
Rated: M  
Jaded: worn out or wearied, as by overwork or overuse  
A/N: A little scene for Pride's nonexistent Breeders' Cup Juvenile. Ashleigh/Brad.

The colt has a chunk the size of a quarter missing from his hoof on the morning of the Breeders' Cup. He doesn't take it well. Months of work, a campaign tailored for this one race, days and days of early mornings that were all supposed to add up to something...of course, he doesn't take it well.

So he doesn't go to the race. Instead he tests the limits of his rental car on the highways of Miami. He gets two speeding tickets within fifteen minutes of each other. When he finally arrives back at the track, the race is over and it's pouring a warm rain that steams on the concrete and clings in a haze to everything.

He doesn't mind, so he gets soaked on his way to the barn because he takes his time. His jeans sag on his legs and his shirt sucks against his skin. His shoes make wet prints on the dusty shedrow aisle while the dirt sticks to every surface, just like he's used to. This is his life; dirt and shit and horses. Trampled hopes and rare second chances.

He usually doesn't mind. Today, he does.

She is at the colt's stall, a little damp around the edges. Her dress sticks to her knees in odd wrinkles, and water is a sheen on her skin. He doesn't pause to stare at her, to be irritated by her. To a certain extent, he knew she'd be here, checking in on their great hope who went and tore off a good chunk of hoof this morning like it was just begging to happen. God, it just makes him want to put his hand through a wall.

The colt has his head over the stall guard, and Ashleigh is working her fingers through his mane. Her hair is pulled off her neck, and her feet are in heels. Toes painted some girly color he doesn't associate with her at all. The dress is raspberry pink. There are ruffles involved. He would laugh if he didn't think she'd turn and send him one of those withering glares.

Most of the time, she can glare all she likes. He wouldn't give a fuck. Today, he's not too sure.

"How's he doing?"

She doesn't look at him, which would irritate him on a normal day. Today's not so normal.

"Fine," she says, parting the section of mane between the colt's ears. He thinks that if she starts to braid it he might go crazy right there. She doesn't, much to his relief. "He's a little unsure of his footing, but that's normal."

"Good, I guess," he says, because he has to say something. She finally looks up at him.

"You weren't at the race," she says, taking in his appearance slowly, realizing just how committed he was to not caring.

"Didn't see the point."

"Count Abdul won," she informs him, but he doesn't care about that either. If it wasn't his colt, he couldn't care less.

"Great," he says, deadpan. "Good for him."

She bristles, as though this is aimed at her. He smirks, wondering just how often she considers herself the center of his universe. If only she knew.

"This didn't just happen to you, Brad," she says. "You can cut the crap any time now."

"Yeah," he nods, leaning against the stall door next to the colt and looks at her over Pride's head. "Sure. It happened to all of us. We're all equally affected. Ashleigh, that is such a load of bullshit."

She glares at him now. Yeah, he really doesn't care. Never mind.

"Pride's career isn't over, and Wonder will have other foals."

"I don't think we're all waiting on bated breath for Wonder to squirt out another foal."

"What the hell is your problem?"

He could go at this from so many different directions, the possibilities are endless. Wonder's not the only mare. The farm is past help. One race doesn't fix everything. Instead they all just wind up proving that it's hopeless, so he shrugs and says, "Maybe this was just the dose of reality I needed, Ashleigh."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asks, alarmed for once. He smiles, changes the subject.

"Since when do you wear dresses?"

"Since I felt like it," she snaps at him. "And you don't get to do that."

"No?" He moves from the stall, sidesteps the colt and puts his hands on her hips, pushing her backwards until she's forced to mirror his steps.

It's not the easiest thing in the world, seducing Ashleigh Griffen. But he's done it before once or twice, three times. It's not like he's counting. He figures he can do it again. She swats at him before they hit the door to the office at the end of the shedrow, the room Maddock has been using as a temporary home base.

"What the hell is your problem?" she asks him, scathing. "Were you born wrong?"

"Probably," he answers, because it's come to his attention more than a few times that this is not exactly the healthiest of relationships and his is not the best way to handle conflict. Sure, he finds her petulant, pissed expression a turn on, but these are extenuating circumstances, and he'd rather just not talk anymore.

He pushes her through the door and into the thankfully empty office. The door doesn't lock, and Ashleigh's standing in front of him with her arms crossed and her jaw set, ready to beat him to pulp and rip apart his dignity, he's sure.

This is a bad idea, but it's better than actually talking to her. So he moves back up to her and nudges her to the bathroom, toward the room with a locking door. Her eyes go wide.

"You are insane," she says, and he can practically hear her say underneath it all, "You are so pathetically broken."

Maybe. Maybe not. She's still going along with him, so what does that say for her? The bathroom is tiny, but it's got all the essentials for someone who nearly lives at the track. Toilet, sink, shower. Mostly it smells like horse and mildew, with a sharp sting of ammonia. At least it's been cleaned recently, whatever that means.

It's easy to corner her against the door, and he locks it as he does so. She lets herself be cornered, trapped by his body and arms. She's not trembling, not scared. She wouldn't be. Neither does she put up a fight, or resist with her hands. She just leans against the raw wood door and looks up at him, and he thinks that maybe she needs this just as much.

Broke down and tired. That's what they are. Two people pathetically chasing a memory and a dream while reality crashes down around them. It's sad, really. So sad that he kisses her so hard the back of her head meets the wood with a crack. She moans, pulls on his shirt, on his collar, the damp material stretching in her fingers.

He likes her dress. Really likes it. His hands go from her waist to her hips to her thighs, pushing the hem up while his thumbs brush along the line of her panties. She gasps against his mouth when he stoops just slightly, wraps his arms underneath, and lifts her up the door. Who knows what that does to the dress. There will probably be runs and pulls and he's happy to ruin it if that means he can enjoy it right now.

Secure against him, he tugs her from the door and turns, depositing her on the sink. She nearly tips back, but he pulls her forward, perches her on the edge of the porcelain. She shifts and shimmies, gets comfortable on the edge with her legs spread around his hips. Her hands reach down to steady herself, gripping the sides of the sink and then, when she's sure he has her, moves back to his body. He's hauled back toward her, back to her mouth and her breath and tongue.

His hands push her hem up further, fingers digging into her skin and curling under elastic.

"Ash," he says against her lips, and she lifts, arms and fingers straining briefly. He drags the material down her legs, pulls it all the way off. Her shoes tip off her toes, clattering on the concrete there's no way he'd want her to touch. He pockets the underwear, pulling her closer to the edge of the sink and going back to her mouth.

Her back arches, his fingers fitting in the bend, bare heels bumping against the back of his legs hard enough to crash him to his knees. He's inclined to go ahead, so he goes. She watches him, knees on the concrete in front of her, and he smiles a little against the inside of her thigh when she finally starts to shiver.

He takes his time, which he knows pisses her off to no end. She slips to the edge of the sink, fingers alternating between gripping at the porcelain and pulling through his hair. His tongue slides through her, and he rocks away, mouth quirking into a self-satisfied smile at the groan she's biting back. She lets out a breath through her nose while he stands between her legs. There's an unladylike huff he loves so much, and she reaches out to grab his shirt above his abdomen as his mouth, liquid and slick, hovers over hers.

"Oh," she says against him, "Fuck you."

He grins, kisses her, not caring about the mess. She doesn't mind, strokes him through his heavy, wet jeans that are quickly becoming the worst torture device known to man. It takes him a second, but he remembers that Ashleigh's big on giving back in kind, so before she can prolong his torture he grabs her wrist and undoes his jeans.

She laughs, throwing her head back and giving him one of those heady, genuine smiles because she's been caught, and he remembers. He supposes that's enough for her, and he's glad because he doesn't know if he'll ever have much else to give. Now or ever.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet and finds a condom. She eyes him steadily, her knees brushing against his sides, dress hiked up gloriously high, and he's really fucking quick about the necessities. He presses against her, and she tips her head back, exposing her throat. He puts his mouth there, daring to make a mark. She doesn't seem to care, so he does, and he's inside her without thinking.

She makes a little surprised noise, like it's been a while. Or maybe it's from the start of a bruise he's made on her skin. Either way, he likes it, and she shifts forward, balancing so precariously while he moves within.

Sweat mixes in the damp, sex with dirt and rain. Ashleigh keeps trying to push herself up, and he keeps pinning her down, keeping her hips where he needs them. They breathe into each other, pressing against mouths and moving toward some inevitable end.

She reaches up and grips his arm, burrows against him as she comes, her whole body curling around him. He's a jump away, past rhythmic, and when he stills against her, barely able to hear or see or recognize her, it's her voice in his ear that brings him all the way back.

Back to this fucking bathroom on the backside of Gulfstream. Reality pushing in unwanted.

"Okay?" she asks, and he doesn't know what she means so he just nods yes.

This is what you do, after all. This is how you forget the bitter feeling of months of hard work lost. You fuck it all away and pretend it's all fine, because isn't it? There's next year. There's other horses. It's one race. You're fucked anyway, right? Enjoy it all now, while you still have it in your hands.

Brad Townsend nods, and he means it.

He pulls away, tosses the condom. She pushes down her dress, keeps her toes curled. He can see the start of a yellowish bruise on her neck, but doesn't say a word about it. Instead he produces her panties, and she lifts an eyebrow.

They both can't help grinning.


	11. Tell Me the Mystery of the Universe

Tell Me the Mystery of the Universe  
Chimerical  
by Syrinx  
Rating: PG  
Kismet: Fate, destiny.  
Summary: The virus never found Edgardale, but Ashleigh's fate was always with Townsend Acres.  
A/N1: My thanks to all the anonymous people who have left such beautiful reviews. This one is for you!  
A/N2: I'm cherry picking from canon with this one (which somehow achieved epic short story status...how did that happen?!). I don't believe Edgardale is in Lexington, as _Ashleigh's Hope_ suggests, so I'm putting it in Paris. But I am going to say that Ashleigh's parents bought it when she was eight, as _Ashleigh's Hope_ does suggest. I never really read any Edgardale-centric book anyway. So...

The mare was nothing special. She started ten times when she was younger, managed a couple of allowance wins before dropping down a class and getting claimed. She had five foals, four starters, two winners, one of them stakes-placed. All together they'd earned five figures, so far. They'd sold at auction for slightly more. Her parents were optimistic. Ashleigh wasn't quite so sure.

It was a combination of that stakes race and the mare's pedigree that kept her on the roster at Edgardale, and got her into almost any stallion's book. Her parents kept saying it was a matter of finding the right stallion for her, some animal that would improve the mare and create a foal that lived up to its bloodlines.

Again, Ashleigh wasn't so sure. Sometimes she thought her parents had an unlimited ability to hope, and she figured they would need it. Edgardale had been in the family for fifteen years and since graduating college and getting into the family business full time she'd learned they only barely broke even. She'd seen the strain her own paltry salary placed on the tiny operation, she saw how much her parents wanted this to all go well, and she knew exactly how costly this breeding would be for all of them.

You didn't just stroll into Townsend Acres and ask for a discount on their best stallion. Townsend Victor came with a price tag of fifty grand, reduced from seventy-five from the year before when her parents decided to pounce. He was the optimal stud, her parents had reasoned. Think about it. If the farm had kept the mare as a weanling, put her to stud, she would have wound up bred to this stallion. It was logical.

It was crazy. That was what Ashleigh had said, but there were stars in her parents' eyes. They were already thinking of a foal that would make up the price of the stud fee and more in the auction ring. Meanwhile, Ashleigh was given the task, as assistant broodmare manager, to drive the mare down to the farm for her date in the shed.

She so wants this to go well.

*

Townsend Acres is perfection. Manicured beyond reason. A well-oiled machine. The horses in the paddocks look like they get two baths a day for the way their coats shine, and the personnel all wear green windbreakers to cut the chill of early March. It takes more than a few minutes for Ashleigh to dismiss it all as a presentation she's seen before. Townsend Acres isn't any better than any other huge stud farm in Kentucky, and Edgardale would never be in direct competition. Aesthetics and landscaping aren't the name of the game underneath.

She's met by a girl a few years younger than herself, college age, with brilliant red hair pulled back in a ponytail. The girl waves the truck down and Ashleigh parks it by a few other trailers outside the broodmare barn, hopping out of the truck while the girl walks around the grill to present her hand. They shake.

"Samantha McLean."

"Ashleigh Griffen."

"Edgardale and Guayusa?"

It's common to mispronounce the name of the mare, and it's second nature for Ashleigh to correct her. "Why-You-Suh."

"Huh?"

"That's her name."

"Oh," Samantha tips her head at the trailer, like she can see the mare inside. "That's pretty."

"It's impossible," Ashleigh laughs. "We had to look it up when we bought her."

Samantha walks around to the back of the trailer, "Well, let's get her settled. Her date is at one, but we're a little backed up today. You got a cell phone on you?"

"Sure," Ashleigh says, unlocking the doors and lowering the ramp. The mare turns her head to roll one big brown eye at them warily, peering over her rump as far as the restraints will allow.

"Good," Samantha watches Ashleigh back the mare down the ramp. "We'll call you when they're ready in the shed."

"Do you know how long we'll have to wait?" Ashleigh asks, leading the mare into the barn as Samantha leads the way to one of the stalls. They pass four stalls with masking tape name plates, temporary housing for mares waiting for live cover. Samantha opens up the fifth stall in and Ashleigh leads the mare inside.

She unclips the lead, pulls off the shipping boots, while Samantha shrugs and says, "I wouldn't want to guess. If you have something you need to do, I'd go ahead and do it. If you want to stick around, you can. Either way, I'll call you when it's time."

That is about as vague as it can get, so Ashleigh accepts it for the non-answer it is and leaves the mare to her hay.

"There's a lounge in the admin building," Samantha adds, "if you're interested."

"I think I'll wander around for a while," Ashleigh says, walking back out to the trailer to put away the mare's things.

"Suit yourself," Samantha says, just as another trailer arrives, larger and newer than Edgardale's rig. Samantha hurries off, leaving Ashleigh with the green expanse of Townsend Acres.

*

She shoves her phone in her pocket, locks the doors to the truck and the trailer, and takes a walk. A long walk.

The farm is a rambling tract of land, and there's almost too much to see. From the broodmare barns and the huge paddocks surrounding it, she can see the breeding shed nearby, the stallion barn further beyond. More paddocks, more gravel roads, more horses dotting the world around her.

She heads out of the breeding complex and finds herself on the racing end, walking along the training oval and the two massive barns that supply it with runners. There's a chestnut on the track, a lone horse working out down the inside rail. She stops for a moment to watch, one hand shading her eyes as the horse goes thundering past. A young woman, a few years older than herself, is crouched over the animal's withers.

They gallop into the turn, leaving Ashleigh behind.

*

After about an hour she gets bored, and she heads back to the broodmare barn to check on the mare. There is no way she'd submit herself to sitting in a glorified waiting room, so if she has the whole of the afternoon just to get this mare bred she'd rather wait it out in front of the Guayusa's stall with her nose in a book.

It's good that she brought one. She decides to check in on the mare first, and finds someone standing outside the stall instead. She's irritated for a minute and checks her phone, wondering if they'd forgotten to call her, but then she gets a better look at the guy in front of her and knows she's still on the waiting list.

There's no way this man is your average farm hand.

"Can I help you?" she asks. She doesn't startle him, she notices. He just looks over at her and smiles slightly, keeps his arms crossed across his chest. She can see how she would have made the mistake at first. He's in nothing more than jeans and a t-shirt. His boots are worn and muddy, like they've seen every day of early spring. But then he's not wearing the required polo shirts everyone else has on with their emblazoned windbreakers, so he's either a visitor like her or something else.

"I should probably be asking you that," he says to her.

He's something else.

*

They shake hands.

"Brad Townsend."

She slips her hand out of his. "Ashleigh Griffen."

*

"How long have you had her?"

Ashleigh shrugs. "My parents claimed her six years ago. She's ten now."

He looks at the mare in a way she can't place. "She's from Pride's first crop. That was a nice group of foals."

"Townsend Prince," Ashleigh nods, because that's common knowledge. "Nice is probably an understatement."

"You remember him?" he asks her, now a little surprised. "You were probably like eight then."

"I was fifteen," she says.

He laughs. "I stand corrected."

"I remember desperately wanting him to win the Triple Crown," she says, shakes her head. "That Belmont nearly broke me."

He rubs a hand over the mare's white blaze. "You and me both. Who is," he checks the mare's name tag, "Guayusa visiting today?"

"Why-You-Suh," she corrects, and he gives her a look. "That's her name."

"Why-You-Suh," he repeats. "Okay. Question still stands."

"Townsend Victor," she tells him. He whistles, low and soft.

"That will be a nice foal."

"So my parents keep telling me."

"Don't have any faith in my boy?"

She laughs. "I think faith is the wrong word. I've got proof he's an exceptional stallion. I'm less sure on whether or not it's a good decision."

"Financially or genetically?"

"Both?"

"Want to see him beforehand?" he asks. "Maybe it will ease your mind."

She pauses and halfway smiles before admitting, "I doubt it."

He drops his hand from the mare's nose and motions for the barn door. "Okay," he says. "Give me five minutes of your time."

*

"I think it took five minutes to get here," she says, full aware that she is either complaining or flirting, and both options really disturb her. Maybe it's just impulse. She hasn't really dated since whatever it is you do in high school. She's not sure making out in cars and giggling at stupid movies counts as a quality relationship, and that's all she's had.

She follows this man into the stallion barn, watching the space between his shoulders when he moves, and tells herself that maybe it's time she give in to Mona's impulses to set her up with the next decent, available male. Just thinking this makes her want to stab herself with forks.

"Right over here," he says, stopping next to one of the stalls in the immaculate aisle, taking the lead rope and walking in with the horse.

"I heard he was fairly violent," she says, watching Brad casually approach the stallion and clip the lead shank to the leather halter. Victor pricks his ears and does an excited little sidestep, arching his neck into Brad's hold in anticipation.

"He was a terror on the track," Brad says, leading the stallion out of the stall. Ashleigh watches them from across the aisle, following behind slowly as Brad takes the stud out into the sun. She sucks in a breath at the sight of the animal in the light, the way the chestnut pops and shimmers.

Victor is something else, just like his owner. Brad jiggles the rope and Victor tosses his head, pawing at the ground. He laughs, and the stallion flicks his ears at the sound.

"I don't know what it is, but I guess this life just agrees with him," Brad says, running his hand down Victor's shoulder and patting the stallion on the chest. "He hasn't taken off anyone's finger since he started stud duty."

Ashleigh makes a face. "Well, I'm glad he's over that phase in his life."

"He's much better adjusted," Brad agrees. "Still gets exercise every day, too. Sometimes I'll take him on the track and let him relive his glory days."

"Seriously?"

"Sort of," Brad says, grinning. "We're not spitting out twelve second furlongs anymore."

"Well, he's gorgeous," Ashleigh says. Brad pats the stallion's neck again, as if congratulating him. "Do you think it would be asking too much to go get my mare and do the deed here?"

He laughs and leads the stallion back up to the barn. "If I didn't think that would be violating a hell of a lot of policies, sure. Unfortunately..."

"Yeah," Ashleigh sighs. "Too much to hope, I guess."

"I'll tell you what," Brad says, letting the stallion loose in his stall and turning back to her. "I'll see what I can do to speed things up down there. Sound good?"

If Ashleigh felt a little thrill at the special attention, she would have denied it. She would have called it relief at finally finding some end to the wait. She's not quite sure how convincing she would have been.

Despite that, she takes it.

*

The breeding goes off without a hitch. Victor does his job, Guayusa does hers. Ashleigh flinches a little when she watches the stallion viciously sink his teeth into the leather protecting the mare's withers and neck. There are jerks and spasms, and the mare pins her ears, but they're both professional. They have, of course, done this many times before.

"Hopefully we don't have to do this again," Brad says, turning from the scene as the crew cleans up the stallion and leads the mare away. The stallion lets out a tired little grunt and flicks his tail.

"Hopefully," Ashleigh says, and then catches herself. "Not that this wasn't fun."

"Yeah, live covers are a boatload of joy," he says so wryly she finds herself smiling.

"Thanks," she says. "For bumping us up the line."

"Don't mention it."

When she leads the mare back to the trailer, he catches up to her. He asks her for her number. She almost chokes on air before she manages to recite it while he punches it into his phone.

"There might be some developments soon," he says cryptically. "Can I call you?"

"Sure?" she says, like it's a hesitant question.

He doesn't seem to notice, just gives her a winning smile and turns back to the farm. She spins around and loads the mare into the trailer, telling herself not to think about it. Don't even think.

*

He calls her sixteen days later, right after they've confirmed the mare in foal. It's about the last thing she expects.

*

"Look," he says to her after the interview with the rest of the board, while she's busy trying not to hyperventilate. "I'll level with you."

"That's good," she says breathlessly, trying to attain some breath at all because she's feeling a little lightheaded. "I could use that, because I'm pretty sure I just blew it."

"Actually," he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his suit, "you're the favorite."

She stops short, fairly sure he's stolen all her breath. Now she can't breathe. That's just great.

"You're kidding," she says, taking a big breath of warm spring air when it feels impossible. Her lungs ache.

"I'm not," he says. "Look, we had a couple with a family doing this job when I was a kid. After them we had a guy who went through a divorce, and needless to say he didn't take it well. Neither worked here long, which is a shame because this is a good place. Great reputation. You'd be working with world class stock. It's challenging and we'll expect a hell of a lot from you, but you're the favorite because you grew up doing this, and I can envision you sticking around for a while. You'll like it here."

"You seem remarkably confident about all of that," she says, feeling her whole body quiver.

"I've looked into you," he says simply. "I know what I'm getting."

She takes a few deep breaths, and he pulls a hand out of his pocket to pat her on the back. It's a little awkward. She wants to shrink away and lean in, which is all very wrong because if she says yes this man will be her boss. The world is not fair. Ever.

"You want to take a look at the house?" he finally asks. She spins to look at him.

"You're giving me a house?"

*

She doesn't have enough to fit in the house. It's the first thing her mother says when they walk into the old three-bedroom farmhouse, because Ashleigh's only lived out of a bedroom before now.

"We'll have to get you some furniture," Elaine says, looking at all the space and walking through the empty rooms. "Maybe I have a few things you can have second hand."

"It doesn't have to all pull together today, Mom," Ashleigh says, standing in the middle of what she thinks is the traditional dining room, holding a box of kitchen items and looking out the window. Broodmare paddocks stretch out as far as the eye can see.

"I know," Elaine says from the kitchen. "I just hate the idea of you living in an empty house."

Ashleigh pushes from the window and walks into the kitchen. It's all old, what a more optimistic person would call well-lived in. Ashleigh likes it, though. It's old-fashioned and romantic. She can do something with this.

"It won't be empty for too long," Ashleigh assures her, and Elaine gives her a look. Ashleigh wrinkles her nose. "No, I do not mean I will be filling this place up with fat grandkids."

"My hopes lie with your sister on that task," Elaine says, and then kisses her daughter on the forehead. "We'll settle on some furniture for you."

Ashleigh laughs. "Thanks. I think."

Then Rory comes bounding through the door, dragging the front of Ashleigh's mattress with him.

*

First things first. Ashleigh memorizes the people, the horses, the routine. Horses love routine. People find it stagnant, so she changes what doesn't work and what isn't efficient. She realizes just what kind of a screw up the last broodmare manager was, and endeavors not to become a raving alcoholic bent on self-destruction.

At least, that's how Samantha describes him.

"He was awful," she shudders. "He'd drink on the job, make everyone's lives a living hell. When he lost control of Three Foot, nearly got her hurt or worse right in the courtyard, Brad kicked him off the farm. Took him long enough."

Ashleigh nods slowly, surveys her little domain. It's as clean and bright as the rest of the farm.

Samantha smiles. "You're doing great."

*

She moves Stardust into an unused stall in the broodmare barn, right near her office. The sixteen-year-old mare settles right in, and as a way to unwind in the evenings Ashleigh always takes her out for a ride.

One day she runs into Brad on a honey chestnut she recognizes instantly.

"Prince," she says, and he looks mildly offended.

"Hey, I'm also here."

"Yeah," Ashleigh says. "I'm told you're around occasionally."

He winces, caught. "Sorry about that. I've been meaning to see how you're settling in, but..."

"Derby preps," Ashleigh says. "I know."

"I'll tell you what," he says, moving the stallion so close to Stardust that the mare flings her head up and pins her ears, shifting to send a kick their way. He nudges the stallion a little further away while Ashleigh laughs.

"She's not having any of that."

"I can see," he says. "Kind of puts a damper on my proposition."

"Tell me anyway," Ashleigh says. "Maybe I can convince Stardust to be nice."

"If I'm at the farm," he tells her, "I'm always riding one of the stallions before it gets dark. Want to make it a daily social hour?"

"Sure," she says without thinking. "You'll have to stay over there," she adds, motioning to where he is on the other side of the trail. "Stardust is a little protective."

"I think she just hates men."

Ashleigh laughs and laughs.

*

The house slowly fills up. A sofa here, a piece of art there. Ashleigh is as meticulous about it as she is about the cleanliness of her barn. When it's close to finished, she invites her college friends over, and they throw a housewarming party. There is a copious amount of wine and Kentucky bourbon.

She's not a little shocked when Leslie, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, motions her over and hisses drunkenly, "Why didn't you invite your boss?"

"He's in Baltimore," Ashleigh slurs, a little tipsy on the wine. "We have a horse running."

Leslie rolls her eyes. "You know," she declares. "I can't decide if you're lucky or not."

"Yeah," Ashleigh says into her wine. "I guess I get that a lot, huh?"

Leslie smiles maniacally and says, "When they're available, I call first dibs on details."

Ashleigh groans and buries her face in her hands.

*

The summer flies by. Ashleigh gets the new foals weaned, watches them scream and call and run themselves ragged along the fence line outside her house. She sits on the porch and sips her wine, the music blaring from the speakers inside a far shot from drowning the cries of the babies.

"So are you torturing yourself or what?" he asks her, because occasionally he appears in her backyard. The backyard is the farm, so she supposes that's fair.

"I like to keep an eye on them," she explains, making herself drag her eyes from his approaching figure to the frantic bodies of the weanlings. "You never know what they'll wind up doing when they're in a panic."

"A few of them are getting over it," he says, sitting down in the chair opposite her.

"More mature," Ashleigh says. "The January babies. The younger ones will catch up in a few days."

"It's like the kindergarten room all over again," he mutters while a particularly persistent gray keeps testing the fence, trying to find the weak points. "That one is going to be trouble."

Ashleigh takes a sip of her wine and puts the glass on the table. "You'd better keep him then," she says. "Do you want a glass?"

He looks up at her, a little surprised that she asked.

"Yeah," he says after a beat. "Sure."

*

She loathes winter. Brad sends her a cord of wood, which winds up on her front porch. It sheds splinters and pieces of bark from the steps through the door, but she doesn't mind it. She teaches herself how to get the fireplace to work and basks in the warmth.

*

The babies start coming in January. Ashleigh hardly sleeps, napping at weird times, usually on the sofa at home or on the one in her office. She wakes up in the barn one night at eleven o'clock, Brad Townsend leaning in her doorway.

"Hey there," he says quietly, like he doesn't want to disturb whatever sleep the horses are getting at such an anxious time. "You missed Three Foot."

Her chest tightens miserably and she rubs a hand over her forehead to smooth her hair out of her face.

"Shit," she sighs. "I'm sorry, I..."

"I wanted you to sleep," he says, shaking his head. "As much as I like how dedicated you are, there's really a line to be drawn somewhere, Ash."

She groans and curls up on her side. "Tell someone to wake me up if another one goes into labor," she says against the cushion, her voice muffled and gravelly from sleep.

"Nope," he says, obstinately. She gives him a look from her spot on the couch.

"What do you mean?" she asks, refusing to sit up and meet this disagreement head on. She's too tired to contemplate straightening her spine right now.

"You're going home," he says, lifting himself off the doorjamb and walking over to the sofa. "I'll carry you if I need to."

It's a threat, and a stupid one, because she thinks it would be sort of heavenly to be transported magically from one place to another without having to lift a finger. That is so far from what her normal opinion would be that it sort of bothers her, enough to make her grunt and shake her head.

"I don't think so," she grumbles. "I'm fine here. Wake me when you need me."

She shuts her eyes, so she doesn't see him roll his. "Okay," he says. "This is cute and all, but you're going home."

"No," she mumbles, not really concerned that he's touching her arm. There's a tugging sensation and when she suddenly rushes back to herself she's in the air. And he's holding her. And she shrieks. He just keeps walking and ignores her protests.

Finally she groans and lets her head hang down, watching her hair wave back and forth and the ground slip by until it all dims and she's gone again.

She wakes up well past dawn, and she's in her bed. Under the covers. At least she's still dressed, save for her shoes.

She could kill him. Instead she just smiles a little and falls back to sleep.

*

Guayusa gives birth in April. It's a big, chestnut colt. White star, four white feet, with muscles and bone to spare. Ashleigh visits them on a slow day and watches them run and run and run in the grass.

*

This is the year they win one of the classics. Townsend Prince's son, a big bay colt by the name of Townsend Cat, wins the Belmont Stakes like he was simply born to do it. Ashleigh doesn't go, hasn't been to Belmont in her life, but she watches on her parents' television set.

Her eyes catch on Brad standing with the horse by his right hand, a willowy blond by his left. She feels her stomach drop, and she knows exactly why.

*

The year passes. She watches Townsend Cat win the Haskell and come so close in the Breeders' Cup Classic, watches Lavinia Hotchkins-Ross tip-toe her way through the barns.

*

It becomes tremendously apparent to her that she needs a life, so she asks Mona to find someone for her. Anyone.

It doesn't go well. There are horrible dates and then there are catastrophic dates. She's telling Mona as soon as possible that her services are no longer required. She'll take her life as is.

Then she meets his smirk the next day, his inquiry into how that whole thing went last night like he just knows without needing to ask that it was an unparalleled horror. She wants to know how he does that. How he just knows.

*

He twists her arm and gets her to come to the Keeneland Yearling Sale. She has no idea why he wants her to come with him, but she folds herself into the passenger seat of his low-slung Ferrari and lets the wind whip in her hair all the way to the track.

When they get there he puts a program in her hands and makes a bee line to barn twelve, so she's starting to think this is premeditated. She trails behind him, not really sure where he's headed, but she thumbs through the thick booklet, curious to find Edgardale's entries scattered among the listings. She finds Guayusa's unnamed colt, hip number 351, and nearly runs into Brad when she belatedly notices he's stopped.

"Look," he says, pointing into the stall. It's Guayusa's foal, standing there in all his awkward puberty. She'd know him anywhere. "That's my next Derby winner."

She snorts. "You've got to be kidding."

"I'm definitely not kidding," he says, giving her this serious stare that is simmering with unrestrained glee. She has no idea how he pulls that off.

"Brad," she says, "Can I just point out two things?"

"Sure," he says, leaning against the solid stall door. "Shoot."

"First, that little guy is a yearling. Townsend Acres has won precisely two Derbies, so that's a huge stretch."

"Noted," he nods. "You're also a huge downer, which is also noted. What's your other point?"

"That's Guayusa's foal!" she practically whisper-yells. "He's got five half-siblings who have collectively managed to earn less than what a starter home might be worth."

He raises an eyebrow at that.

"Look," she continues. "I love my parents. I love that they're trying with this mare, but it's the biggest long shot in Townsend Acres history if you buy him and expect to see him turn into something greater than allowance quality on a second rate track."

"That's remarkably honest of you," he says after a second. "I appreciate that."

She lets out a breath. "Yeah, so can we look at actual prospects now?"

"Sure," he shrugs, "but I'm pretty sure I'm adding him to my list."

"Are you being bullheaded just to piss me off or are you really that inclined to piss away a lot of money today?"

"Maybe both?"

She rolls her eyes and follows him.

*

Guayusa's colt sells for $135,000. Her parents will be thrilled. Brad leans back in his seat and smiles, all self-satisfied while he taps his program against his knee.

"I hope you're happy," Ashleigh says, and he just nods.

*

He names the colt Heraldry. She has no idea why.

*

"He really gets into this sometimes," Samantha tells her. "When he finds a horse he really likes, I swear he can make them champions by will alone."

"Seriously?" Ashleigh asks, more than a little dubious. They're both watching Brad stand with the colt, Herald, they call him, because that's a logical name for a horse. Ashleigh rolls her eyes.

"Sure," Samantha says. "Look at Prince. Victor, Panther, Cat...now Herald."

Ashleigh groans and tips her head back to the sky. "That is such a stupid name."

Samantha shrugs and gets back to work.

*

"Herald is a piece of work," he says. Ashleigh stands next to him at the paddock and watches the colt strut around on his little piece of land. He's grown into himself through the winter, all lithe grace and lean muscle. Everything is a challenge and a puzzle to be solved with him. Ashleigh knows the exercise riders have their hands full in the mornings, and that Brad rides him in the afternoons. They've all been thrown more than a few times.

Ashleigh looks up at the start of a black eye Brad's sporting because the colt decided it would be fantastic to throw his head back as hard as he could. She winces a little and says, "Haven't you put something on that yet?"

"It will be fine," Brad shrugs, and Ashleigh is inclined to disagree.

"That's not what you're going to say tomorrow," she says, and pushes his hip with hers. "Come on, I'll get you some ice."

He follows her to the farmhouse, and watches from his spot against the counter while she piles ice into a towel. She hands it to him and he says, "Don't have any steak around, or something?"

"Does it really sound like a good idea to put raw red meat on a bruise?" she asks. "I mean, really?"

He presses the ice against his eye. "Good point."

"Yeah, I have lots of those," she says. "Maybe one of these days you'll say, 'Maybe I should have listened to Ashleigh' when Herald is dragging you or someone else around the training track."

"I'm not great at hypotheticals, Ash," he says, pulling the ice pack from his eye, studying it and then reapplying it to the bruise. "But I'm pretty sure it would be more panicked than that."

"Right," Ashleigh nods. "That thought would come later, while you're in traction in the hospital."

"You really don't think this is a good idea, do you."

It isn't a question, and she really doesn't know how to answer it. She presses her lower back against the counter and says, "No, I don't think that. I just really hope he's worth it. That's all."

Brad smiles at her from underneath a portion of towel that's dropped in front of his face. She leans forward and moves it, tucks it under his fingers.

*

The colt's first race is surprising. Brad invites her up to Churchill Downs to see it, like he thinks that if she doesn't witness the brilliance of this animal she'll never believe him when he brings back good news.

Ashleigh finds herself standing next to Lavinia, who is busy between making small talk and watching her like a hawk. Ashleigh wants to tell her she has nothing to worry about. She's a broodmare manager who's chosen to wear a t-shirt and jeans to Herald's first race. There's no comparison, but if Lavinia wants to be wary, Ashleigh lets her.

Brad has Jilly Gordon ride, and Herald blazes around the track like he was born to tear it up and burn it to pieces. Ashleigh remembers her mouth dropping open as soon as Herald breaks out of the gate, because he just turns on some invisible jet pack and goes sprinting off to the lead. She thinks he's at least ten lengths in front of the next horse when he crosses the finish line.

Lavinia jumps up and down in her heels, covering her mouth with her hands. Brad moves Lavinia's fingers and kisses her, while Ashleigh tries her damnedest to keep her eyes on the colt.

*

"See," he says later, during the celebration. "Who was wrong?"

She doesn't look him in the eyes. "Me," she says. "That was totally me."

*

Herald goes racing through New York, and Ashleigh stays at home to wean the foals. She goes back to Edgardale while Brad lives it up in Saratoga, visits Guayusa and her new filly foal. The baby is a light bay, mousy and soft, her fuzzy baby coat shedding off to reveal a darker color underneath.

A moment of impulse makes her take a photo of the two, and she sends it to his phone. She gets a text back a few minutes later.

_I've already got a name for her._

She just bets he does.

*

Herald comes back from New York as one of the best two-year-old colts in the country. He'll be the morning line favorite for the Breeders' Cup Juvy, or so Brad excitedly tells her on the phone. But when he comes back home he's reserved. Herald's antics don't even seem to register, and there's nothing that brightens him up like Herald's mindless violence.

Jilly is the first person to tell her when Ashleigh's finally has had enough of walking on eggshells.

"They broke up," the jockey says, shrugging. "Why?"

"He's just been different," Ashleigh says, not feeling much of anything. She's proud of that, really. Then she's annoyed that she'd feel pride. She should feel nothing and feel nothing about it.

"Yeah," Jilly says, and then lowers her voice. "It's just rumor, but I heard he asked her to marry him."

"Oh."

Jilly nods. "I guess I'd be different, too."

*

Ashleigh walks up to the main house. His parents are off in England, busy doing whatever they do with the oversees operation, and she just walks right in because the door is unlocked and the lights are on.

"Brad?" she asks the emptiness.

"Ashleigh," she hears his remarkably calm voice from the next room. She walks in and sees him flopped on his back on the ridiculously ornate and therefore completely uncomfortable sofa. "If you're here to maybe talk to me about anything, the blanket answer to any question or comment is no."

"I don't think that works," she says.

"I don't really care."

"What is that supposed to accomplish?" she asks. "Is that supposed to get me to shut up and leave you alone?"

"With anyone else," he sighs as she shoves his legs off the sofa and sits down on it, making a face. It really is uncomfortable.

"I heard from Jilly."

He grunts. "And what version does she have?"

"Nothing detailed," Ashleigh says. "Just that you asked and she said no."

"We'll leave it there," he says, lifting his legs back up and placing them in her lap. She gives them a disgusted glare and shoves them off again.

"I'm not a foot stool," she snaps at him. "And you can grow up at any time. You asked, she said no. Sometimes that's how it works."

He doesn't say anything, just digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out the little jewelry case. He tosses it to her and she catches it, holding it in her hands. She doesn't really want to know.

"Go ahead," he invites her, lifting his hand. "Take a look."

She pops it open, but it's not what she expects. "It's my mother's," he explains for her. "It's sort of a Townsend tradition. It passed down to me."

Ashleigh can't help herself. She tugs the little heirloom out of its slit in the fabric, taking a closer look. She loathes herself a little for liking it, for feeling her heart thud a little too hard in her chest. This is just so many different shades of pathetic that she pushes the ring back into the box and puts it on his chest.

"It's beautiful," she says, forcing the words out of her mouth and rising. He looks at her curiously, and she stalls for a second before saying, "Just make sure your head's on straight before you get on Herald. If I see you taking any of this shit out on that horse, I'll kick your ass."

She leaves before he can say anything. It's the only thing that makes her feel a little better.

*

She thinks he might have gotten over it around the time Herald goes to the Breeders' Cup. Even when the colt winds up scratching before the race thanks to the equine equivalent of a cold, he comes back to the farm his old self.

From the door of the broodmare barn, she can see him back the colt off the trailer. When he looks up at the breeding complex, at her barn, she ducks into the doorway a little bit, out of sight.

*

They meet on the trail, like always. Stardust switches her tail like a pissed off cat, lays her ears back at Victor and lets out an angry little squeal. The stallion snorts, baffled as always, and stays on his side of the trail.

Brad grins and pats the stallion's shoulder. "It's okay, guy. She hates us all equally."

"That's not it at all," Ashleigh says, sticking up for her mare. "She's just choosy."

"You've never bred her?" he asks, looking at the mare, or at her leg, she can't be too sure.

Ashleigh feels a heat rise around her neck, despite her coat and gloves and the start of winter's bitter chill. "No," she says. "I never wanted to. Besides, foals would cut down on our riding time."

"Good a reason as any," he shrugs. "You going to Edgardale tomorrow?"

"My mom is making a Thanksgiving feast," Ashleigh says. "I've been enlisted to help her take care of it, so yes. Are you staying here?"

"I suppose," he says, shrugging as the stallion works his mouth on the bit and makes sideways glances at the mare, who is taking extra strides to ignore him. "My parents are in London, and I thought about flying out, but who the hell wants to deal with that, you know?"

"You should come to Edgardale," she says, the words out of her mouth before she can call them back. He gives her a look out of the corner of his eye. The words are out now, so she has to bravely push on. "We make too much food, and I can't let you stay around a nearly empty farm and an empty mansion or do whatever it is you'll do."

His answer is casual. "Sure, if you've got the room."

*

He follows her up to Paris the next day, and she keeps glancing at the massive Townsend Acres truck in the rearview mirror. She's told her mother about this addition, and she's truly hoping this isn't going to be awkward.

Of course, it isn't. Her mother plows into the wine he brought, and Justin is more than happy to have someone who isn't a blood-relation to Caroline around. Rory is a little reserved at first, treating Brad as more of his sister's uninspected boyfriend than her rich and powerful, completely platonic boss. Ashleigh smacks him on the arm and tells him off, practically chasing him out of the kitchen so he can go watch football with the rest of the men like a normal Kentucky-raised boy.

Caroline smiles from her spot at the kitchen table, feeding Emma tiny spoonfuls of strained peas. "You know, he might be right."

"Rory is never right about anything," Ashleigh says, going back to basting the turkey and shoving the oven door closed. She takes a sip from the wine glass she's got stationed near the stove top.

"Hear me out," Caroline says with a wicked little smile. "Brad Townsend follows you to little Edgardale because he's got nothing else better going on?"

"Maybe he didn't," Ashleigh says.

"He didn't just hop on the private plane and jet off to London?" Caroline raises an eyebrow. "Mom, back me up here."

Elaine shakes her head. "I'm not going to hazard a guess," she says, topping off her wine glass and putting the empty bottle in the recycling. She pats Ashleigh's admittedly very tense back. "But I'm happy to have more company, sweetie."

Ashleigh groans and pulls one of the pies out of the oven to cool. "Is this dinner going to be ready any time soon?"

Caroline smiles to herself and gives baby Emma another spoonful of peas.

*

After dinner, Ashleigh slips out of the house for a breather and heads down to the barn. She finds herself standing outside of Guayusa's stall. The mare gives her little acknowledgement, keeping her attention on her pile of hay. She's hugely in foal, due in January this time. Ashleigh doesn't even want to know how she feels.

"I think," she hears him from the doorway, "that I've nearly got your dad to sell me her filly privately."

She turns away from the mare and watches him walk up to her. He looks positively bright-eyed, maybe from the scotch they've all been drinking, or the prospect of having another of Guayusa's babies in his barn. The mare had no foal after Herald, leaving Brad a little rabid for another one.

"Don't believe him," she advises. "That baby is going to auction next year, especially if Herald does what he thinks he'll do."

She can't quite see the outline of his smile in the dim light, but she knows he is. "Yeah, it's probably too much to hope I can get her for a song."

"Is that your plan?" Ashleigh asks jokingly. "Get her on the cheap?"

"Nah," he sniffs. "I was going to start at half a million and work my way up."

"Good luck with that," Ashleigh chuckles as the mare finally leaves her hay to check out the people hanging around her stall. She pushes her head into Ashleigh's side and then gives Brad a once over, allowing him to run his hand over her blaze and across her nose.

They're quiet, and she doesn't know what to say to fill the void. She's tired of talking about the mare, about her babies, but there's nothing she can think to say except for, "I'm sorry I presumed you wouldn't have anything better to do than come here today."

"Why would you say that?" He lets his hands fall when the mare goes back to her hay, ignoring them once more.

Ashleigh keeps her eyes on the mare and says, "Just to put it out there, I guess. I did sort of assume."

"I'm glad you asked," he says. He scrubs a hand in his hair and then looks at his fingers uncomfortably. "It's nice to be around a family that acts like, well, a family."

"So that's why you didn't jet off for London?" she asks, looking over at him while he still looks at his hands. She stops just short of saying something unintentionally insulting. She barely knows his parents, never met his sister, and while the farm isn't his it may as well be. She doesn't think it's fair to him, but he doesn't say anything about it, and she keeps that thought to herself.

"No," he says, looking up from his hands and catching her eye. "Not exactly."

*

Her breath catches in her throat, and she's both immeasurably frustrated and happy beyond words when Rory comes jogging into the barn to yell that they're missing the last five minutes of the fourth quarter and the game is tied. What the hell are they thinking? It's damn cold outside.

They follow him back to the house, walking side by side.

*

His parents come back mid-December, and she gets an invitation to their holiday party in the mail, because the Townsends are not the kind to just drop invitations off casually. It's a black tie event, highly formal, and she'll need a new evening gown. She needs a new one each year.

She hates evening gowns. They're ridiculous and ugly, even if they're stupidly expensive and made out of silk. Each year she donates her gown to Goodwill and doesn't think twice about it. This year, she calls up Mona and Leslie and tells them she needs the most beautiful dress she can obtain. Price isn't an issue. They both go nuts.

At the end of a week of searching, they find a dress that looks like it has a life of its own.

"It's Carolina Herrera!" Leslie whispers, slipping the red silk through her fingers and keeping her voice low, like anything else would be irreverent.

"Where?" Ashleigh looks around, and Leslie rolls her eyes.

"The dress is Carolina Herrera," Mona tells her. "Before you ask if that's the name of the dress, I'll tell you now that it's the designer."

"Oh," Ashleigh says, and then nearly gags at the price. This isn't going to be the sort of dress she throws at Goodwill later.

*

It's well worth the money. The dress fishtails and slithers behind her heels, does a slippery slide over her hips, catches at the edges of her shoulders, drapes and folds over the cut at the back. Mona pins her hair up behind her head while Leslie dusts her with make-up.

"I feel like a fairy godmother," Leslie says. Ashleigh looks up at her, pushes her bangs aside.

Leslie finishes up and says, "Just be home by midnight."

*

She thinks that for the first time since she started to work at Townsend Acres, Clay Townsend really looks at her. This disgusts her for a second before she's rescued by Brad, who has two flutes of champagne and gives her one.

"Really, Dad," he admonishes while Clay keeps looking at her. "You haven't offered the lady something to drink yet?"

Clay smiles, keeps looking at her. "I confess it quite slipped my mind."

"Well," Brad says, takes a healthy swallow of the bubbly liquid, "excuse us, Dad. I need to talk to Ashleigh for a second."

Clay doesn't move, so Brad puts a hand on the small of her back and they extricate themselves, winding through the mass of people and finding a relatively hidden spot near the tree. It towers above them, gold and green and red.

"I hate to say this," she says, turning and finding him close by. Now he's looking at her. "Thanks," she says, abbreviating what she would have said. Her treacherous heart completely overacts to his proximity.

"Well," he says, taking a breath. "I really can't blame him."

"Is that the Brad Townsend version of a complement?"

"Hardly," he says, still looking at her. "I actually wanted to give you something. Can you," he keeps looking at her, actually waves his hand at the dress like it's distracting or confusing, "walk outside in that?"

"It's in the guesthouse," he says, and it takes her a second to remember that he lives there when he's not in the mansion. Or somewhere on the farm. Or at some racetrack or something. Her body is going haywire, and she's not thinking straight.

"I'm pretty sure I can get there and back," she says. "I walked here, you know."

"Did you," he says, still looking.

"Yes," she says, sipping her champagne. "I'm remarkably independent."

He laughs and takes her free hand. "Okay, woman. Let's go."

They slip out of the party and she stares at his back as they walk, watches the black material of his tux between his shoulders. She tells herself to get it together. First step in that direction is to probably let go of his hand, but she really doesn't want to. So she follows him into the guesthouse and pauses while he shuts the door and turns on the light.

She takes another shaky sip of champagne while he puts his on the kitchen counter and picks up an envelope.

"What's this?" she asks, taking it when he hands it to her.

"Your present," he says. "I know I've kind of ignored this holiday before, because I've got too many employees to keep straight, but I'm not too closed off to the idea of starting a new tradition. Open it up."

She puts down her glass and pulls out the little stack of papers, glancing over them quickly. She laughs.

"My dad sold you the filly," she says, like she can't believe it. Then she pauses and looks at him suspiciously.

"She's yours," he says, still looking at her. Her palms are beginning to sweat.

"What," she starts and looks down at the papers. "Brad, this is too much. This is way too much. She's worth more than a song, and I know my dad made you pay it."

"Of course he did," Brad says. "But that's not the point, because I wanted her. And I wanted you to have her."

She opens her mouth and closes it again, puts the papers on the counter. "You can do anything you want with her," he continues. "Have me race her, breed her, use her as your riding horse when Stardust needs a day off. Whatever you want to do."

"You're kidding," she says, shaking her head. "No one pays that much for a pleasure horse."

"So breed her," he says, shrugging. "Race her. Ride her when you want."

"Why are you giving her to me?"

She looks up at him, wanting some sort of answer other than he can do as he likes. He's standing so close, and he's given her a horse worth thousands, maybe millions, and he doesn't seem to have an answer for her so when she thinks she might just scream in frustration he closes the distance and kisses her.

She kisses him back, instinctively. Her hands go to his chest, his jaw, around his neck. Then she pulls back, sucks in a breath while he rests his forehead against hers, pressing her back against the counter.

"We should," she starts, but he kisses her again, like he's afraid of whatever she might say. She lets him, wouldn't be able to deny him, and pulls back, licks her lips to try again. "We should do this slowly," she says, feels his hands on her hips through the silk. "You know, that's sensible."

"Definitely," he kisses her, puts a hand on her neck and slides right inside of her. She arches back, moves her elbow to press her fingers against his side, her arm knocking her glass back and off the counter. It shatters into pieces on the tile. She jumps and rips away from his mouth to look down.

He moves to her neck as she makes a strangled noise and says, "The glass, Brad."

"Yeah," he agrees, and she feels his teeth. Her eyes fall closed. "It's broken."

She laughs, but that's cut off when he pulls her away from the counter, picks her up just enough to move her over the glass and then puts her down safely away from the shards that crunch under his shoes.

"Slowly," he says against her lips. "I can do slow."

*

She wakes up in the morning, curling in the sheets. There's one remaining bobby pin that didn't make it out of her hair the night before, and she digs it out of the mass of wild curls at her neck. She lets it drop on the floor as he moves a hand in her hair, pulling it into his fist to kiss the skin behind her ear. She hides a smile behind the sheet she has twisted in her fingers.

"We should get out of bed," he says, and she can feel the rumbling of it from his chest behind her. "We need to go get your filly."

Laughing seems appropriate, so she does it as he turns her over. She tucks her head against his neck and laughs and laughs. He gathers her closer, her arms folded against his chest as she pulls herself together and breathes in a steady breath.

"Okay," she says. "Let's go get her."


	12. Good Chemistry

Good Chemistry  
Chimerical  
By Syrinx  
Ludic: play or playfulness  
Summary: Ashleigh and Brad have to get home in the snow. Shenanigans ensue.  
A/N: In the netherworld between _Wonder's Victory_ and _Ashleigh's Dream_, this fic is having a grand old time.

It snows on Valentine's Day. Not the kind that sticks for a second and is gone the next, or the fine dust that scatters like sugar on the grass. No, this is the kind that clings and clumps. It soaks into shoes and socks, because who the hell has snow boots in Kentucky? Ashleigh wants to know.

She stands on the deserted, totally white street and stares at her car, which is sitting nose-first in a ditch. The front bumper is crumpled into an unfortunately placed rock, which can only be seen because her car ran into it. Otherwise it would be camouflaged white, like everything else.

Ashleigh feels a very intense need to kick her car. Or herself. She left her cell phone in her locker. Who does that? Oh, people with their heads screwed on wrong. That's who. So here she is, three miles from the farm, with her car in a ditch and precisely nobody within shouting distance to help her. At least it's a Friday, she reasons, and then looks around her. No, it still _sucks_.

And it's still snowing. She glares down at the snow piling over the toes of her shoes and feels none of the childlike joy she should be feeling for a snow day that involves actual snow.

She resolves to start walking, so she goes back to her car and wiggles into the backseat to grab her bag and her keys. By the time she's hauling herself back to the ground, she can hear a distant roar, the kind that vaguely sounds like an engine.

Forgetting everything she's ever learned about taking rides from strangers, not talking to strangers, not accepting things from strangers, and basically treating everyone like they could potentially be diseased, Ashleigh bounds into the road, ready to fling her arms out and flag down whoever is about to come along.

She is not going to be stuck walking three miles home, damn it. There is no way that's happening.

The engine sounds growl louder, and Ashleigh feels a little spike of sheer happiness when she sees the beginnings of what looks to be a giant white truck hauling ass down the road like it's not snowing and there isn't five inches of snow on streets that, quite frankly, won't be plowed. She shrinks a little closer to her car, some of her bravado slipping when she realizes flagging down a truck going that fast might equal it sliding right over her while it's attempting to stop.

It's the flash of green and gold lettering on the passenger door that catches her eye, and that's when she throws caution to the wind. She waves both arms at it, and whoever's driving damn well notices because the truck jerks left, away from her, and begins to slide.

There's a grinding noise followed by a squealing noise and Ashleigh literally can't believe what she's seeing because the truck's there one minute and the next it's in the ditch on the opposite side of the road. The truck's rear wheels are in the ditch, one front wheel is hanging on for dear life on the road, and the driver's side wheel is hanging about two feet above the ground.

Ashleigh covers her gaping mouth with her hands. The truck is still on, and whoever it is tries for a minute or two to use all of that horsepower to do something effective, but after snow and mud and dead grass have been spit in all directions the truck goes silent and the door opens wide.

Brad Townsend jumps out. If Ashleigh ever cursed, this would be a perfect time.

She doesn't. So he does.

"What the fuck, Ashleigh?"

"What was that?" she retaliates, pointing at the truck.

"That was me trying not to run over you," he rages.

"I needed to get your attention," she yells at him, giving her car an obvious glare and then transferring that look to him. "Why the hell were you driving so fast?"

"Why should you care?" he counters. "Are you going to write me a ticket?"

"Why should I care?" she asks, gives him the you-are-too-stupid-to-live glare again. "I should care because you came within a few feet of killing me, you moron."

"Then don't jump in the street like a mad woman," he says. "God, everything has to be such a damned melodrama with you."

"I cannot believe we are having this discussion," she yells over him. "Just shut up!"

And then things go deadly quiet. The snow falls around them and it's all pretty and Ashleigh is fuming and Brad looks like he wants to break something, preferably with his bare hands.

For a minute neither speaks. The snow starts coming down harder, and still no one drives by to rescue them because Ashleigh is beginning to think they're both total idiots in comparison to the rest of the population of Kentucky.

"Okay," she says quietly, takes a deep calming breath. "Where's your phone? We can call someone at the farm to pick us up."

He gives her a withering look. Her hopes totally sink and then die.

"Why don't you have your phone?" she asks him.

"What, don't you have yours?" he asks in return. She sighs. Fine. Touché. Whatever.

"We are the stupidest people in Kentucky," she grumbles.

"I might give you that," he says, brushes the snow out of his hair and gives the sky a pissed off stare.

"How long do you think it would take to walk?" she asks, looking down the road.

"I don't know," he replies, more than a little surly. "An hour?"

God, she just wants to kill herself now. Instead she trudges forward, and leaves him behind. If he wants to stay with the cars, she's more than happy to let him do that. She thinks she might be looking forward to a blissful hour of silence and bitter cold and wet shoes when she hears him jogging through the snow to catch up with her.

When he falls into step with her, he slips and nearly takes her out. They both do a panicked hand-holding, grabby thing with each other and gain their balance enough to keep on their feet. She shoves at him and he immediately lets go.

"Why are you even here?" she asks, annoyed.

"Three day weekend, initially," he shrugs. "Looks like it will be longer, since New York is under two feet of snow."

"That's just great," she says, giving him a forced smile. It's all teeth and unenthused peppiness.

"Yes," he says, voice just as fake as her smile, "my purpose in life is to make sure your life is shit. I'm glad I could be here to personally ruin your day, Ashleigh. Not that you didn't have a fine start all by yourself."

"Look around you, Brad," she says. "I'm starting to think that theory is holding a little water."

"Snow, maybe."

"Shut up."

"And walk for an hour in silence?"

"Yes."

"Then that goes against my god-given purpose," he says. "How will I cope?"

"I don't know," she says. "Branch out a little. Maybe you'll find a hobby."

He laughs, genuinely, loudly, like what she said is actually funny. She gives him a curious, maybe slightly confused look out of the corner of her eye.

Then he gives her what she wants and everything falls silent.

For maybe, like, seven minutes.

"So what were your plans today?" he asks, taunting but maybe a little bit interested. He wants to make fun, but he also wants to know, probably so he can make fun later.

"You're assuming I'm not going to do anything for Valentine's Day," she says, keeps tromping through the snow.

"Did you miss that there's five inches of snow on the ground?" he asks her indignantly. She looks over at him and feels such an urge to pick up some snow and shove it in his stupid, handsome, stupid face. She restrains herself, just barely.

"I did notice that," she says archly. "I don't know what I'm going to do, but Mike's inventive."

He snorts. "I'll bet."

"Shut _up_."

He smiles.

"You know," he says, five minutes of silence later. "We can probably save some time if we cut over the field."

"I am not cutting over a field," she says.

"Why not?" he asks. "It's my field."

"It's probably just faster to take the road," she says. "And what if a car comes by?"

"Have you seen a car?" he asks her. "At all? In the past fifteen minutes? How much do you want to bet that there isn't another one for the next forty-five? And even if there was one, do you really think they're going to slow down and help us out?"

"Why not?" she replies stubbornly. "It's better than setting off across a freaking field."

"The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, you know."

"Wow, that's so enlightening."

"And this road is definitely not a straight line."

"We are staying on the damned road," she tells him.

"Fine," he sighs. "Whatever."

Then she slips and falls and he laughs.

And she has had it. She swipes up some of the very wet, very cold snow in her bare hand and throws it at him. He dodges out of the way, grinning wickedly, and so she throws another, catching him on the knee.

So he gives her a look that means she's going to see some retaliation, right now, and before she can get herself up he's pegged her in the arm. With a squeak of very girly, indignant rage, she gathers up as much snow as she can in both hands and hurls it at him, hitting him in the shoulder.

That's when he gives her this look. She's recognized it on Rory, and even with Mike, which if she sits there and thinks about that long enough would make her give pause. She doesn't want to think about that at all, because _ew_.

Ashleigh bolts to her feet and sprints down the road. Or, rather, she runs as fast as she can over five inches of wet, slippery snow without falling on her face. Her bag bangs heavily against her hip, and she can hear him coming behind her because of course he has to be taller and faster, doesn't he?

So she decides to pull an about face and attack, which stuns him nicely. He clips her and slips, falling on his butt. It's her turn to laugh, right in his face, and it is so very satisfying. She stoops quickly to scoop up some snow, throwing it at him and getting him in the chest.

Then she turns and darts off, trying to put some space between them and gain an advantage. Maybe he'll get tired of the game if there's no hope of catching her, she thinks wildly to herself right before that theory gets shot all to hell when he proves that he is indeed faster and stronger by catching up to her in a few strides and wrapping his arms around her from behind.

She shrieks, then slips, throwing all her weight against his chest as they both go down into the snow.

He hits the ground pretty hard, and then there's her on top of him. He may be her mortal enemy and everything, but she wouldn't wish a sudden fall to pavement on anybody. Unfortunately, she's still high on the adrenaline and twists out of his grasp, throwing another handful of snow at his head and trying to stand up.

That doesn't work out too well when he reaches out and grabs her leg, keeping her from getting away and also keeping her on the ground. She slips and tumbles onto her back. He rubs a good amount of snow into her hair, then drags his fingers over her face for good measure. She grabs anything she can reach, doing the same to any part of him that she can hit while he presses her down into the snow right there in the road, hovering over her and at least presenting a target if she can't escape his hands.

It's a wild fit, and it only ends when she finds herself laughing so hard she can hardly breathe. He's grinning like a maniac, laughing right along with her. She covers her face with her hands, trying to get a breath while her lungs ache and burn. They'll both be dripping wet when they get to the farm, and there won't be any way to explain it.

He rolls off of her and lands on his back on the road, stretches his arms out from his body. She lifts her head a little to look at him and then drops it accidentally onto his arm, still laughing so hard she thinks she might actually be a little hysterical. Her hands move from her face to her ribs, tears tracking down her face from the pain of laughing so damn hard.

After a minute, they stay just like that. Laughter dies down until all she can hear is snow. It's pleasant, almost. She's not sure if she's ever been this happy around him, if she's laughed this hard _ever_.

Finally he looks up, seems to notice her head pillowed there on his arm. His eyes roam over her tear-streaked cheeks and he says, "You okay? That was a lot of falling."

"I'm okay," she nods. "How about you?"

"Pretty damn good," he says. They sit up, and he at least acts like a nice guy and helps her to her feet.

They walk the rest of the way back and manage not to yell. A car never comes by. It takes an hour and twelve minutes before they get to the Townsend Acres main gate.

Later, when Mike arrives at the farm in a horse drawn sleigh, she may have jumped up and down and clapped her hands. She believes this may have been the girliest thing she's ever done, if you didn't count that shrieking incident with Brad on the road. She doesn't, of course.

When they're sleighing their way around the farm, she hears something collide with the wooden back of the carriage. Mike doesn't hear it, but she turns around to look behind them, thinking she's heard something, but not quite sure what.

Sure enough, she spots the wet mark of a snowball on the peeling paint. Then she sees Brad leaning against the section of fence they've just passed.

He smirks and gives her the finger.

She reacts in kind.


	13. The Secret of Greatness

The Secret of Greatness  
Chimerical  
Maugre: in spite of  
Rating: R (language)  
A/N: Ashleigh/Mike, Ashleigh/Brad. During Wonder's Victory:  
"I hear your boyfriend's colt won his maiden yesterday. Wonder how much free information he picked up around here?"  
"None," Ashleigh shot back. "He's done his own work, and he's not my boyfriend."  
"Glad you're smart enough to know he's just been using you."  
- Wonder's Victory

I've always wanted to write a fic around this moment in _Thoroughbred_ time. Looks like this will be that fic.

* * *

All it really takes is pressure.

Ashleigh Griffen has had three years of it, compressed and compounded, magnified times ten thousand. So she's really not that surprised when she tips her head back, getting a good look at the boy standing in front of her, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction when he meets her eyes.

"How's Melinda doing, Brad?" she says, that little pleasure center within her humming and growing at the look on his face. "I heard she made an interesting life change recently."

The smile that appears on the side of Brad's mouth is automatic, a twinge like the tightening muscle in his cheek. "You want to start drawing some comparisons here, Ashleigh? As far as I know, you need to pick up a stone before you can fucking throw one. You're too inept to figure out the first step."

Ashleigh's eyebrows rise. "First I'm smart enough to avoid Mike, and now I'm inept? Pick one, Brad."

"Fine," he pushes closer to her, head bent to accommodate for the height difference. "If you hadn't noticed, Mike wants you. For some insane reason, he happens to be drawn to tightly wound do-gooders and you, Ashleigh, fit the bill so perfectly for him that he's willing to sit around like an idiot until you realize he's the nice, secure, reliable, incomparably dull guy you've been waiting for."

"Is there a point here?" Ashleigh asks. "I can only listen to mad raving so much."

"You'd be smart to avoid that hell," he says, and Ashleigh bristles, her mouth drawing open to protest until he keeps talking. "But you're too incompetent to realize why you're avoiding it."

"Like I said, there's nothing to avoid," she says, crossing her arms over her chest and ignoring the little pit in her stomach that throbs a sharp warning.

"Yeah," Brad says, tilting his head to consider her for a moment longer. "Lost little Ashleigh doesn't know what she wants. No big surprise there."

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Are you listening to yourself?" he asks. "Because hello, Ash, he has his own fucking farm. The kid can figure shit out by himself. He's here because of you."

The pause that precedes her immediate rebuttal is all he needs to draw back and roll his eyes. "Figure it out, Ash. I'm tired of hearing 'he's not my boyfriend,' because if he's not your boyfriend, he's using you. There are two options. Pick one."

Her mind, treacherously, veers toward Mike. Smiling, beautiful Mike. She's stuck on watching him in her head, his hands on Jazzman's coat, murmuring soft words and looking up to smile at her as she walks up to ride. Before she can say a word—just one mean word to turn all of this on its head—Brad grunts a disgusted laugh and walks away, disappearing into the exhausting, brilliant light.

* * *

After the race, Jazzman is a sweaty mess and all for nothing. Panther wins in the end. Mike stands in his suit and personally washes the colt off, rinsing the sweat marks away. There are sweet murmurs on his lips, water running down his hands, and Ashleigh falls in love.

She stands in the wet gravel, the spray brushing at her bare legs and the quivering hem of her dress, and wants so badly she can hardly feel her fingers for the hard beating of her heart. Ashleigh watches the big black colt hang his head and paw at the soaked muck around his hooves, and hates the seed of doubt that was planted in her gut.

He either loves her, or he's using her. There's only one way to find out, but it involves putting herself on the line, involves setting herself up for a fall. Ashleigh's good at that, blinding striving for things that have never felt in reach. She's just never experienced the tumble, the flat fall back to earth.

She's scared to try, now with Brad's words curling in her ears.

But Jazzman has lost, and she's still here. Surely that means something, that Mike can still look up at her and smile that reassuring, resilient grin like there's always next time. Right?

There's always another race, Ashleigh reminds herself. There's always something on the horizon. She thinks of Brad's intensity, the way he stared at her as he dug into her being and gave her doubt. Ashleigh rejects it wholesale.

It's time, she thinks, to step off the precipice and see if she'll fly.

Ashleigh walks forward, her shoes grinding and sloshing on the wet, jagged stones, and presses herself into Mike's side. He turns to her, the spray sliding down Jazzman's legs, surprised enough to open his mouth.

This is her opening, and Ashleigh takes it.

* * *

"So is he your boyfriend this time?"

He asks it right in the space where she usually says no, he is not her boyfriend. She smirks instead, and tips her head up enough to get the message across. What do you think? Brad nods.

"Congrats," Brad says. "Keep him the fuck off of the farm."

Fury immediately replaces the soft, golden glow she gets when she thinks of Mike. "You can't order him off the property like he's trespassing. That's insane!"

"He plays for the other team," Brad says. "It's responsible."

"It's unnecessary," Ashleigh insists.

"Right, why bother when you can just tell him everything he needs to know to prep his colt for the next time he meets Panther?"

"That's not how it is."

"Isn't it?" he asks. "You've picked a door, Ashleigh. That's great. Now pick which is more important. The farm or Jazzman's race record."

"You're being impossible," Ashleigh says, her voice rising. The fact of the matter is she has been feeding Mike information, little details of works in various types of conversation. She's at every morning breeze. She sees everything. She's told him everything.

A little part of her feels ashamed, and then another part kicks and screams that life isn't fair.

"You just don't want your horse to lose to a better animal," Ashleigh says, full of venom and spit. "Jealousy is pitiful, Brad. I thought you'd be tired of it by now."

"The horses are evenly matched," Brad says. "And no, I don't like to lose."

"I'm not going to stop what I'm doing," she promises him, and he smiles. It's admission enough.

"Then I'll know what you're telling him. Spying, Ashleigh, is a nasty thing to be accused of in this business."

Ashleigh's heart turns cold. "You wouldn't."

"You already are."

Everything in her sinks like lead.

* * *

One day, she stops talking about it. Mike gives her a weird look when she says she didn't make it to all the works that morning, but doesn't say much.

Jazzman wins his next race, but Panther isn't involved. Brad scratches him at the last minute and enters him in the Sanford instead. The big gray wins by a neck at the last second, but Ashleigh hardly pays attention.

She thinks Brad's messing with her head. She says so later.

"Think what you want," Brad shrugs, leading a cool and content Panther down the aisle to the yawning stretch of grass outside the Saratoga stables. Ashleigh watches them, the gray colt dancing on his toes and Brad casually holding on, watching his charge with a prideful gleam that smolders dark and deep.

"Why did you scratch?"

"Why do you want to know?" he asks, rubbing the colt's withers as Panther settles into the grass and rips at the shoots. "Do you need to ferry back some information?"

"It's not for Mike," Ashleigh snaps so quickly that Brad looks up and considers her with a quiet calm. He waits her out.

"It's for me," Ashleigh says quietly, just underneath her breath.

Brad nods and gathers the colt's lead, urging him up from the grass to walk over to Ashleigh, stopping inches away. Panther pushes his head into Ashleigh's hip, searching for treats. Brad lets him, watching Ashleigh flinch as the colt wiggles his lips over her jeans.

"No matter what you think of me, Ash," he says, "my colt deserves a fair race."

Ashleigh looks down, hating the way she can feel his eyes. The colt nudges her beseechingly, then gives up and lowers his head to the grass around her feet.

"Also, he's stakes quality," Brad adds. "Screw that allowance."

"Since when did you get all reasonable all of a sudden?" Ashleigh asks, making herself look up at him.

He smiles and shrugs. "Prince is out until fall," he says. "I spent a long time wanting him to get back to a hundred percent so I could hand you the sweetest defeat in the history of racing this summer, but it's not going to happen."

"How heartwarming," Ashleigh mutters, looking up at the sky just over Brad's head.

He shakes his head and walks away with the colt, saying over his shoulder, "And then I got sick of it. This isn't Wonder and the Prince, Ash, but if we're going to keep repeating history, I want a fair break."

"Maybe you don't deserve one."

He laughed at that. "Who would have thought? Ashleigh Griffen doesn't want to play fair. The world must be ending."

Maybe, Ashleigh thought dismally, it really was.

* * *

Wonder races in the Travers, and Brad is there when it all goes to hell. Jilly is in the hospital, and right there in the parking lot Ashleigh rounds on him, wanting answers she is sure he can provide.

"What do you know?" she nearly screams over the sea of parked cars, and Brad stops in his tracks before he runs straight into her.

"What the hell, Ashleigh," he says, looking so much the tired rich kid that Ashleigh can hardly stand it. His tie is loose and his jacket is crunched into his fist, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow. Ashleigh hates looking at his arms, hates that he looks so weather-beaten and in place wherever he goes.

He has to know something. He has to be turning it all around on her, giving as good as he got.

"Wonder was acting weird before the race," she tells him, and he doesn't look like she's imparting any new information to him. She gets more irate. "She was spooky and climbing out of her skin."

"She's a spooky mare," Brad says evenly. "Nothing new."

"Not like that she's not," Ashleigh says. "What happened to her?"

"You're assuming I know?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm assuming you know," she says. "I'm assuming that you know precisely what happened to her."

"Why?" he asks. "Because you have something coming?"

Ashleigh wants to scream at him to shut up, but she bites back the impulse when she realizes it's the last thing she needs to do. She swallows it down bitterly, and he looks so smug it's an effort not to slap the smile off his face.

"She could have killed Jilly," Ashleigh points out, solely to sober him up. It has the desired reaction.

"Yeah," Brad nods. "I'll look into it."

"No," Ashleigh says, shaking her head. "You'll tell me what you did."

"Are you hearing impaired?" he asks her, losing his temper. Finally. Ashleigh glares up at him as he moves into her space, right there in public. In a parking lot. She doesn't care, and meets him head on. "I told you I don't fucking know what's wrong with your damn horse. I'm not around her constantly, so maybe you should open your eyes and look around once in a while."

"Says the guy with an ax to grind," Ashleigh challenges. "How are you at all reliable?"

That muscle is twitching again, and he's looking down at her like he wants nothing more to shove her out of his way. "I'm not," he says. "Not reliable or safe or secure for you, Ashleigh. You know that. And yes, I've got a hell of a vendetta, but it's solely in seeing the Prince through to the end. Fuck Wonder."

"Excuse me?" Ashleigh asks, shocked. Her mouth drops open, and he shakes his head. He doesn't care, she realizes. If he did this, he's done it and he couldn't care less.

"You heard me," he says. "Fuck her. I have no interest in the Travers besides witnessing the outcome, and that's pretty much the extent of my involvement in the race and your…oh, I'm sorry…my filly. So she's insane. Deal with it."

Then he does shove past her and leaves her standing, staring sightlessly at row upon row of cars.

* * *

She's lying to Mike. She's avoiding Brad. When she comes home to Kentucky it's a relief, until Brad follows with Panther.

He's fresh from a second place finish in the Hopeful Stakes, beating Jazzman by three lengths at the wire. Mike is disappointed, and Ashleigh compensates with false cheer. It's met with more questions, and Ashleigh keeps lying through her teeth and her pasted on smile.

"Ash," he says. She can hear the tone in his voice, and knows what's coming. It's a sunny September day, and she should be at Townsend Acres working with Wonder, who's no more spooky than usual. She shouldn't be at Whitebrook having conversations about why she's not spying for her boyfriend.

They never call it spying.

"Yup?" she asks, all false.

"You haven't seen Panther work for a long time," he says. "Is Brad switching things up?"

"Maybe," Ashleigh says with a carefree shrug. "You know how he is. I'm starting to think he's more paranoid than I thought."

"Yeah," Mike says softly, almost to himself. He swipes at Jazzman's coat with a rag, polishing it up to a dull, blue-black shine. "It's just that you know Charlie is so quiet all the time, and I was learning so much at Townsend Acres. Maybe I should go back and talk with him in the mornings."

Ashleigh feels like Mike has reached inside of her and scooped out all of that doubt Brad put her in weeks ago, in the full bloom of summer. She feels like he's replacing it with cold, hard knowledge. It's a little difficult to breathe, but Ashleigh does it anyway while her lungs constrict, her face impassive.

"I don't think Brad will like that," she says, shaking her head. "But you can go if you think you'll learn something."

She says it easily enough, and when he arrives the next day she makes sure Wonder's work is as far from Panther's as possible. The colt has already gone out when Mike arrives in his truck, stopwatch in hand.

He looks a little disappointed when he only sees Wonder, and it's an effort for Ashleigh to keep the tears in her eyes.

Later, she'll catch Brad looking at her from down the railing. She can't place the expression on his face, but she knows it's off. She knows because she thinks she wears the same look on her face every day she's with Mike.

She thinks she's not the only one masking lies.

* * *

The Prince breezes, and he looks like a freight train coming off the rails. Ashleigh feels a little pull at her heart, something telling her to run for Wonder and bury her face in her mane.

So that's what she does, and Brad finds her later.

"So what's the story?" Brad asks her while she's grooming Wonder. The filly is ripping at her hay net, calm and content. She hasn't spooked in days.

"Wonder's back to her old self," Ashleigh says. "No spooking."

"Uh-huh," he says, like he doesn't believe her.

"I saw Prince work," she adds. "He looked good."

"He did," Brad says, but doesn't offer more. Ashleigh notices, because usually he'll go on and on about the colt to the point where she has to stop listening.

"Where is he going next?"

"Gold Cup," Brad says. "I'll take him up to Belmont with Panther end of the month."

"Right," Ashleigh says, looking at Wonder's mane. She wants to go to Belmont, but no one thinks racing Wonder against colts is a good idea anymore. Not with her failure to finish the Travers and Jilly's leg in a cast. They don't even have a jockey anymore, with Craig going to Belmont with Brad.

"Look," Brad says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it into disarray. "I want to apologize for that day in the parking lot. I was pissed off, and I overreacted to, well, classic you."

She blinks at him. "That's an apology?"

"Take it or leave it," Brad says. "You've been avoiding me since then, so I thought I'd throw it out there."

Ashleigh swallows thickly, tangling her fingers in the filly's mane. "I have," she says. "I'm sorry, too. Messing with Wonder that way…it's not your style. I shouldn't have assumed."

Brad laughs, low and dark. Ashleigh smiles to herself, until he opens his mouth again.

"How long have you been lying to Mike?"

She jerks her head up, her bangs falling into her eyes. Brad is right there, leaning in Wonder's open doorway. He reaches out and pushes the strands of her hair out of her eyes, and Ashleigh goes cold. Then runs hot. She blushes, and ducks her head from his touch and he drops his hand. Her bangs fall forward again and she pushes them back.

"Since Saratoga," she says simply. There's that mask on his face again, hiding the blatant surprise she was hoping for. Maybe he's not surprised at all. She hasn't exactly been covering her tracks.

"Does he know that?"

Ashleigh shrugs, twisting Wonder's mane hard around her fingers. "I think he's starting to figure it out."

Brad nods, and looks at the ground. "What are you planning to do then?"

"I don't know," Ashleigh admits.

_Fall,_ says a little voice in the back of her head. She'll fall right back to earth.

* * *

It all falls apart on the way to the Champagne. Wonder finishes fourth in the Fayette, and the Prince wins the Gold Cup like he was aiming to crush his competition.

Ashleigh doesn't want to talk to Brad. She feels a childish stab of jealousy whenever she sees him, and an acute frustration when she looks at Wonder. The filly is jumping out of skin again, refuses to stand still for anyone. It goes on longer and harder than before, and her new jockey jumps ship right after the race. He blames the filly for the crap placement, and Ashleigh wonders if he's right.

Mike puts two and two together when Ashleigh just stops talking about Panther. It's sloppy on her part, but she's just so tired.

"You've been helping him," Mike accuses her. It's three days before the Champagne, and Ashleigh shakes her head, the vim and vigor gone.

"I'm not," she says calmly. "I'm playing fair."

"Since when does Brad play fair?" he asks her, and Ashleigh chokes on the words that start to leave her mouth.

Brad has always played fair. "Brad has made mistakes," she says. "Really stupid mistakes, but so have I."

Mike shakes his head, disbelief clouding his normally gorgeous blue eyes. He takes one step back from her and turns, leaving her standing alone in the aisle. There's a cold tingling in her fingers, and the blood in her ears roars.

This, Ashleigh thinks, is the feeling of plummeting.

Mike doesn't speak to her leading up to the race, and Ashleigh wonders if they're broken up. With only a few pointed looks at her during the lead up to the Champagne, she might as well not be there for Mike at all.

She sits in the Townsend Acres box, a row behind Brad, and watches Panther come from behind and win the race by a head over Jazzman. Her heart won't leave her throat for hours after.

When she tries to approach Mike after the race, he tells her bluntly that he has other things to do. He can't waste time anymore, especially with a girl who lies.

"I can't believe you'd protect him," Mike says, disgusted. "He's done nothing for you, Ashleigh."

"This isn't about Brad," she tries to say, but he won't hear her. He's not interested in anything she could say.

"I love you," she tries, her voice breaking on the words. Mike tenses, refusing to look at her. Ashleigh thinks that she's meeting the earth.

So she turns around and runs out of the barn, comes to a shuddering stop in the middle of the backside, and presses her fingers to her lips to keep the scream inside.

* * *

There's this stupid party after the Champagne at a Manhattan restaurant. Clay doesn't buy the whole place out, but he comes close. Normally, Ashleigh doesn't go to these sorts of things, but she tells Charlie she's going and has Craig accompany her in.

She thinks it's better than sitting alone in her hotel room, going over everything that's happened over the past two months in her head.

She's wearing a dress that makes her look a little too matronly for fifteen, and she leaves her hair down for lack of anything to do with it. At least she's clean, Ashleigh thinks. She smells like ginger and white tea instead of horses and dirt. Her nails are painted light pink.

Sipping on a glass of diet soda gets her through most of the evening, and she spends most of that time talking with the grooms. Her eyes, however, keep slipping over to Brad, who's talking to some tall blond girl with her hair swept up and diamonds dripping around her neck.

Ashleigh loathes this girl with every fiber of her being, and she doesn't know why. She focuses on the girl instead of the way Brad is looking at the girl, hoping she's just making classless, low comparisons to herself.

That's not it. She doesn't give a damn about the blonde's dress or her diamonds.

Ashleigh finishes her soda and goes to find Craig, accidentally bumping into Brad on her way. He turns and catches her elbow. The blonde watches patiently over his shoulder.

"Sorry," he says, and she raises an eyebrow. He looks like saying the rest is a waste of his time, but continues anyway. "For Mike."

Ashleigh's stomach tightens in a sickening grip. "I don't give a damn," she spits. Surprise shifts over Brad in a quick flutter before he stamps it down, but Ashleigh sees it and softens her hard glare.

"You broke it off with the boy scout?" he asks, and Ashleigh's cheeks burn.

"It's nothing to you," she tells him, her eyes darting from Brad to the girl at this back. She pulls her elbow out of his fingers and turns around, trying to escape. She doesn't see Craig anywhere, and she wonders where he's run off to when Brad is at her back, pushing her into a corner. She whirls around, and her back almost meets the wall before he grabs her wrist and keeps her stationary.

Ashleigh feels like a ping-pong ball, nearly weightless and impossible to control. She shifts on her feet in front of him and he says, "So what is this, the reinvention of Asheigh Griffen?"

"What do you mean?" She's impatient, and she doesn't want to play games. She feels that all she ever does with Brad is play games.

"You never come to these."

"I didn't want to sit around and mull on how much my life sucks," she says to him. "So I came here."

"He broke up with you," is what he says, and she rolls her eyes.

"Did you just figure that out?" she asks. "It's hilarious, really. We broke up because he was cheating; only it was on you."

"Isn't irony a kick in the teeth?" Brad asks, and she wants to have a witty retort for that but all she really wants to do is cry big, heaving sobs. He sees the change in her and backs off, raising his hands. "Hey, I'm sorry."

"You should be!" she hisses through big breaths.

"Look," he says, while she focuses on breathing, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and sinking into her dress. "Your principles always fly straight, Ashleigh. It's fucking tough when you're surrounded by people like me and Mike, but it's admirable."

"That's not helping," she says, hiccupping. "Mike was good. He was better than you."

"Sure," he says. "He was only asking you to cheat, and when you didn't he broke it off. Real upstanding guy."

"I was lying," she says, sucking in a breath and holding it. Brad puts his hands on either side of her head and looks at her hard.

"Breathe, Ash," he orders. "I don't want you to pass out."

She lets the breath out and sucks another into her aching lungs. It hurts to keep going, and Brad curses, pulling her out of the corner and dragging her out the back and into the street. The cool autumn air slaps Ashleigh in the face, and she really starts to cry. Brad pulls her against her chest and lets her rest there, soaking tears into his shirt and hyperventilating.

He says nothing. Not one soothing word. She cries herself to silence, hiccupping with each small breath, slowly becoming aware of where she is and the warm hand he has on the center of her back.

"Are you back with me?" he asks, dropping his hand at the soonest opportunity when she stirs. She presses her forehead against his chest and breathes slowly, taking control of the rampant emotions stirring up embarrassment and confusion, mixing them in with sorrow and dread.

"Mike broke up with me," she states quietly. "Wonder hates her new jockey, and she's spooking again. The Breeders' Cup is next month and no one can ride her."

"I know," he says.

"I don't know what to do," she says.

He pushes her back. Lifting her head to look at him feels impossible. It's too heavy and her brain is thick with tears. Her eyes feel like they're swimming in water. She sniffles and lifts her hand to wipe ungraciously at her nose.

"We'll figure it out," he says, and she laughs.

"I don't see how," she mutters, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Brad shrugs. "You could always ride her, you know."

She laughs again, manically, like it's the most hilarious thing she's ever heard. "I'm too young," she tells him. "Fifteen, Brad. Remember?"

He gives her an easy stare. "I remember."

"Besides, you wouldn't want to give Wonder a chance anyway," she informs him. "Not with Prince running."

"Ashleigh," he says, like he can't believe she hadn't considered this before. "It's not a real race if he's not running against Wonder."

She doesn't know what to say to that. He goes on. "Besides, it's easy enough to fake a birth certificate. Jocks do it all the time. You'll be sixteen before you know it."

"You'd help me?" she asks, stunned.

He shrugs, and smiles like he can't help himself. "I'll talk to Charlie about it tomorrow."

He motions her back to the restaurant, and she goes. She lets him open the door for her and walks into the warmth inside, wiping at her eyes and feeling a soft, fleeting brush of hope.

* * *

Charlie loves the idea. Ashleigh is proclaimed sixteen on her newly minted birth certificate, and as she looks down at the drying ink she feels like she's fooling everyone.

She doesn't like it.

"Doesn't this count as cheating?" she asks Brad, putting the piece of paper on the desk.

"It's for the common good," Brad says cheerfully, reclining in his chair as his father sits on the other side of the desk, watching them both curiously.

"The common good?" she asks, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Brad smiles full on.

"You, me, Townsend Acres," he says. "That's common good enough."

"Convenient," Ashleigh says, and Brad leans forward.

"Look, Ashleigh, we're backed into a corner here."

"He's right," Clay agrees. "It's the only way Wonder has a chance, and we all know it. You either ride her in the Classic, or we scratch. I think we all agree that it's pointless trying to get a new rider on her back in the time we have."

Brad looks up at her from his chair, putting his elbows on his knees. She looks down at him, and is surprised to find how eager he is. How much he wants to see her do this. She wonders if this isn't a trap he's elaborately set, and thinks she'd walk into it regardless. He's right. There are no other options.

"Are you okay with this?" he asks her, and she thinks back to Mike. She thinks he never once asked her if she was okay with spying on Panther. It was just expected somehow, like she could take all of her emotions for Brad, roll them up, and casually place them on a horse. She'd done it, happily.

She's ashamed, and she bites her lip.

"Yes," she says. She's perfectly okay with this.

Charlie puts her up on one of his allowance runners and claps her on the knee, a little too enthusiastic to see her up there. She comes in a driving second, and floats all the way through the barn the next day, a smile lit on her face like a beam of light.

When Charlie tells her to take Wonder out on the trails, she goes with a skip in her step. She hand gallops the filly up the maintenance trail and over the rises, approaching the galloping lanes with a heady feeling fluttering in her chest.

Brad is in the lanes on the Prince, the big chestnut colt taking a few crab steps to the side when he sets sights on Wonder. The filly pauses only briefly, swishing her tail and squealing around the bit.

Ashleigh pats the filly, urging her forward to circle around the colt.

"She looks good," Brad observes. "Any spooking?"

"Not today," Ashleigh says, and can't help the grin. It's like the old days. She can feel that Wonder is back to normal, but the way she's laughing and smiling around the Prince and Brad feels weird.

Feels better. Like she doesn't have to spend so much time embroiled with hate.

"Wanna race?" he asks, and her head spins around so fast she thinks she could strain something. He gives her a cautious look, nudging the Prince closer to her as they circle around in the lane.

"Seriously?"

She doesn't know what to think. She wants to. Really wants to, just to see where they are. They've never put the Prince and Wonder together in a work before, because everyone saw that as the horrible idea it was. Ashleigh has always been curious, but that's when Brad dashes her idea to pieces.

"Just a lope, Ash," he says, patting the colt. "My weight's no good in a working breeze. Besides, Charlie would kill you if he found out."

"And Maddock wouldn't be pissed?"

"Maddock and I have an understanding," Brad says, and Ashleigh hears that for what it is. Brad does what he wants, and Maddock works around him.

"Sure," Ashleigh says, cuing the filly. Wonder strikes off, leaping into a rolling canter. "You'll have to catch up!" she yells over her shoulder, but he's there, of course, right in her wake.

* * *

They ship up to Churchill for the Breeders' Cup and Ashleigh is a nervous wreck.

"It's the jockeying," Brad says during the party the night before the races. Ashleigh shakes her head, her hair a heavy, curling mass. The second she told her sister she was jockeying Wonder in the Classic, Caroline booked appointments for Ashleigh's hair and nails. They went shopping and bought a long, lean gown that clung to every curve Ashleigh barely had.

Ashleigh hadn't wanted it until Caroline told her there was no way anything else would do. It's ridiculous, but it fit right in when everyone else. It appears that Caroline is right. People do double takes when they see her, but the shocked expression that Brad couldn't conceal was the one she'll treasure the most.

She does, of course, love to turn everything on its head with Brad.

"It's not the jockeying," Ashleigh says, bouncing a little in her high heels. "I'm worried about leaving Wonder."

"We posted a guard," Brad says, unconcerned. "She'll be fine."

Ashleigh's quiet for a minute, accepting his cavalier reassurance hesitantly. She takes a sip of her glass of water, trying to feel in place in all the glitter and silk. Charlie refused to come tonight, once again preferring to hit the sheets early, but Ashleigh wanted to get the experience for once. She wants to see what the hype is all about.

Down deep, she wants to see Mike, and she's not ready when he appears.

He shows up by himself, and it's the first time Ashleigh's seen him since Belmont. She freezes, watching him move through the crowd of people like a shiny blond beacon she can't take her eyes from.

Then she panics. She gets in front of Brad, who looks perplexed until he reads her eyes and looks over her head to see what has her all worked up. He pauses, like he's staring at something and doesn't feel like looking away, no matter how uncomfortable. Like he's staring something down. Ashleigh doesn't pause to think about what that means.

"Take me to the track," she says, reaching out and grabbing his arm through his suit. He sighs and finally looks down at her.

"Ashleigh."

"Please," she says. "I don't ask much of you, Brad. So just please _take me to the track_."

"Can't you just go…"

"I don't have a driver's license," she says so quickly the words meld together. "I'm fifteen no matter how much you say otherwise. Take me, please?"

He gives her a look and finishes his sentence. "Go over there and act like an adult?"

"I'm fifteen!" she hisses, and he rolls his eyes.

"Fine," he says, pushing her behind him and turning around, following her out of the room. "You realize you owe me," he adds to her back, and she looks at him over her shoulder, only seeing Mike watch their hurried exit.

* * *

The filly is fine. Wonder chews on her hay and flicks her ears at her overdressed visitors, leaning into Ashleigh's hands and rubbing her nose on the beautiful dress. It's ruined now, but Ashleigh figures getting horse snot out of fabric is the job of a dry cleaner and doesn't think much of it.

"See," Brad says next to her. "Eating like a normal horse, standing like a normal horse, and acting like a normal horse. I'd say she's normal."

"I wanted to see for myself," Ashleigh says, rubbing the filly's forehead before Wonder moves back to her hay and chows down. Ashleigh looks after her, leaning into the stall a little, like the invisible tether connecting them has pulled taut.

"No," Brad corrects her. "You didn't want to talk to Mike."

Ashleigh shivers a little and rubs at her arms. It's a chilly night in Louisville, and she's all bare arms and back. The dress is thin. Brad pulls off his tux coat and hands it over. She takes it with wordless thanks and hunkers inside, pressing the cuffs together.

"Maybe I didn't," she finally admits. "Maybe I'm not ready yet."

"Fine by me, Ash," he says, undoing the silly little bow tie and the buttons at his throat. Ashleigh looks at the dismantled get up and feels a little flush crawl up her skin. She huddles a little deeper in his coat and tells herself she needs to stop reacting to the simple things he does. Clearly she's oversensitive to boys, if she's eyeing Brad Townsend like he's a normal male.

Brad Townsend is not a normal, viable option. And he doesn't even see her like that. Ashleigh tells herself primly not to be stupid and moves on.

"So are you ready to lose tomorrow?" she asks him, and he chuckles at her forced peppiness.

"Sure, Ash," he says. "Me and my favorite are quaking in our boots."

"Just because Prince is the favorite…" she starts, but he's not paying any attention and she stops to watch him press a hand against the colt's forehead. The two horses are stabled next to each other, with Panther on the other side of Prince. The younger gray and Wonder don't get along, but Prince is a teddy bear. All he wants is love.

She feels a little ashamed to bring up this old rivalry now, after everything. He's taken her here when he didn't have to, and his idea is what's keeping Wonder in the race, no matter his stance that he'd rather be racing against her anyway.

He's kept her honest through the whole mess with Mike. She can't believe that, even on her best days, but there it is. Ashleigh watches him rub Prince's ears and feels overwhelmingly tired, like there have been too many changes to sort out.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly says, and he looks at her, slow to pull his eyes from the colt.

"Why's that?"

"I'm saying stupid things," she says. "Of course we want to beat each other. I don't have to keep bringing it up like a broken record and making us feel weird."

"Weird about what?" he asks, and she shifts uncomfortably in her shoes. The heels are pinching her toes.

"About," she waves her hands in his general direction. "About us standing here right now."

"I don't know what you mean, Ash," he says, turning to look at her. The Prince lifts his head and rests it against Brad's shoulder, crowding close. Ashleigh watches like a curtain has been lifted. She hadn't realized, really, how much the colt loved him until now.

"We're too alike to function," she says, a nervous laugh slipping out of her lips. "How are we even here now?"

"We're here because you asked me to bring you here," he says, although it doesn't clarify anything at all. "And I said yes."

Ashleigh pulls the coat closer to her body, soaks in its borrowed warmth.

"Ashleigh," he says, watching her so carefully she feels like the wrong move might break her. "What's going on?"

"I think we're friends," she says slowly, and he blinks at her silently. The enlightenment appears to be mutual. Then he smiles.

"Well, that will make racing against each other more interesting."

"I'm going to try my hardest to win," she promises.

"Good," he shrugs. "I'd be pissed if you eased up on my account."

She laughs. "Like that would ever happen."

They share similar, unnerved laughter and walk out of the barn, leaving the horses to shift together in the cool night.

* * *

Panther doesn't win the Juvenile. Neither does Jazzman. Ashleigh's too busy bouncing on her toes in the shed row to notice the order of finish. Wonder watches her impassively, waiting her turn to make the journey to the track. Ashleigh is biding her time before she has to go to the jockey's room, but she's worried.

She's worried that things seem to be fine. Wonder is fine. No spooking, no sweating, no hint that they're going to be in for a rocky road ahead.

She should be elated. Instead she's just waiting for it to all fall apart.

"Listen, missy," Charlie says, walking up to her and nudging her from her position in front of the filly. "Why don't you go on down to the jock's room and get set up? You're no help to anyone milling around in here. Only making the filly nervous."

She sends Charlie a little glare, and crosses her arms. "Wonder is far from nervous," she says, pointing to the filly. "Look at her, Charlie. She's the picture of contentment."

"And we don't want to change that," Charlie says. "Go on."

"Not yet," Ashleigh argues, and Charlie stops short at her quick disagreement. "I don't think it's a good idea to leave her alone, Charlie. We both know that she gets worked up after she's been left alone, so I don't think…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Brad walks down the aisle, his suit and shoes as spotless as ever. "Just tell her already, would you?"

"Tell me what?" Ashleigh asks, looking from Brad to Charlie, who hesitates while Brad rolls his eyes.

"We're using Wonder as bait," Brad supplies, and Ashleigh's mouth drops open so far it almost hurts.

"What?" she nearly shrieks.

"We're not going to let anyone hurt her," Charlie assures her, throwing an annoyed frown at Brad.

"We are not using Wonder as bait," Ashleigh says. "We are _not_."

"Ashleigh, we don't have a lot of time," Charlie tries to say, but Ashleigh's hardly paying attention in the middle of her freaking out. "If someone was visiting Wonder while we were gone, there's a chance they'll come by in the next few minutes."

"And if this person happens to succeed, Wonder's going to spaz. We'll ruin everything we've worked for since summer, Charlie."

"We're not going to let the guy get to her, Ash," Brad says, his tone matter of fact and precise.

"You can't guarantee that," Ashleigh says, shaking her head. "No. Absolutely not. We are _not _doing this."

Her stance is firm. Brad and Charlie exchange a look, and Ashleigh sets herself in front of Wonder's stall like a sentinel.

"Okay," Brad says, turning toward her. "There's no time for this anymore, Ash. Your resistance is cute, but it's not helping."

Ashleigh scowls up at him, a retort she's never thought of using on her mouth, but before she can use it he picks her up. She squeaks in alarm as he throws her over his shoulder and carts her down the shed row. He doesn't stop when she swats at his lower back, clinging to his jacket and twisting her head around to see Wonder upside down and watching her with pricked ears. Charlie is following along close behind.

"Charlie!" she says in a high screech. "What the hell?"

"Ash," Brad says, walking around into an empty stall and righting her in his arms, setting her down on her feet in front of him like the whole thing has been nothing for him. Ashleigh sways for a second and pushes the hair out of her face, glaring at him as he straights his suit out with a few casual tugs.

"We really don't have time for any foot stamping," Brad tells her, and she smacks his arm. He grins.

"Ash," Charlie says, pointing to the two bulky men leaning against the side of the empty stall, amusement on their faces. "This is Carter and Will, track security."

"Great," Ashleigh says, unimpressed. "So we're going to hide in this stall while something's happening? Whose idea was this?" She looks at Brad directly, and he tugs her into him so suddenly she falls into his chest.

Ashleigh swats at him again, and he points out the cut out in the stall wall. Standing where she is, Ashleigh can see Wonder perfectly.

"Was this here before?" she asks, reaching out and touching the edges of the makeshift window.

"We had maintenance cut it out early this morning," one of the security guys says.

"Early, early," his coworker says. "Before anyone could have possibly been around."

"Oh," Ashleigh says, and then looks up at Brad. "This was your idea?"

"His motivation," Charlie says. "My idea."

"Thanks, old man," Brad mutters, and Charlie allows himself a throaty laugh.

Ashleigh looks between them, wanting badly for this to work without something happening to the filly. She takes a deep breath and nods shakily, watching through the window steadily with Brad at her back.

* * *

"How long do we wait?" she asks after a few minutes.

"Impatient as ever," Brad says, and she gives him a warning glance.

"Unlike some people, I have places to be," she tells him, and he just smiles at her. One of the security guys grunts behind her, pointing to the window. She spins around and jumps, reaching back for Brad's hand, squeezing tightly. After a second, he tightens his fingers in return.

"Jim Jennings?" Ashleigh asks, watching the young assistant trainer pause in front of Wonder's stall. He stands directly in front of Wonder, who has backed into the dark space of her box. Ashleigh knows her filly, knows her reactions to people, and she heads for the exit.

"Whoa," Brad says, keeping his grip sure on her hand. "Not yet, Ash."

"What do you mean not yet," she hisses. "He's the one!"

"Wait," the security guy—Carter—insists, and Ashleigh struggles to contain a pout. Brad keeps his hand around hers, and she stands, watching with increasing panic as Jim pulls a crop from the inside of his coat, lifting it toward Wonder's stall.

He shakes it once, and taps it against the doorframe. The leather smacks at the wood with a sharp crack, and that's it for Ashleigh. She rips out of Brad's grip and runs for the door.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she yells down the aisle, shocking Jim so much he drops the crop. Wonder screams, and a hoof meets wood. Jim stumbles back from the stall and tries to run past her, headed for the closest exit. She rushes to stop him. It's only afterward that Ashleigh thinks he must have assumed she was alone.

The men appear behind her as Jim shoves her to the ground on his way to the door. Ashleigh hits the floor hard on her shoulder and gasps, rolling onto her back in time to see Brad step over her legs and send a fist into Jim's face.

Jim lands right next to Ashleigh with a gasping moan, and she scrambles away from him, kicking up dust and hay particles while he groans on the ground. Her shoulder aches, and Wonder's kicking the crap out of her stall. Ashleigh's heart is beating loud enough to drown them all out.

"What the fuck?" Jim yells from the ground, and Ashleigh keeps crawling away until her back meets Charlie's legs.

"Hey there, little lady," Charlie says down at her, offering her a hand up. "You feeling okay?"

"Charlie?" she asks, looking up at him when another voice enters the fray.

"The hell is going on?"

She turns around, her hand in Charlie's while the rest of her goes limp. She looks past Charlie's legs to see Mike standing there, totally stunned. Jim rolls onto his butt, pressing his hand against his bloody nose. Brad's still standing over Jim, but he transfers his attention to Mike.

Mike, who's storming down the aisle with anger on his face.

"Having Jim do your dirty work for you?" Mike asks, pointing to the still bleeding assistant trainer, who looks partially pissed and partially like he'd like to die at any second.

"Seriously?" Brad asks, pointing to Jim. "Does this really look like a team effort to you?"

"I think you'd do anything to win," Mike says, stopping on the other side of Jim. "Dragging someone else into it really wouldn't surprise me."

"You know," Brad starts, "I don't know what the hell I ever did to you, but your persistence is fucking amazing."

"What you did to me?" Mike asks, laughing. Ashleigh stares between them, watching Mike's hands clench into fists. He looks at her, and her stomach falls to her feet.

"Guys," she says, clenching Charlie's hand and letting him help her onto shaky feet. Wonder's screams rip into her, and she doesn't know what to address first. The panicked filly, the bleeding man, or the boys who look like they're about to come to blows at any second.

She steps around Jim as the security guys pick him up by his arms, dragging him out of the fray. Putting a hand on Brad's chest, she pushes him back a step and he goes reluctantly. Then she swings around to focus her attention on Mike.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"I was coming to see you," Mike says, his eyes going from her to Brad and back. "To wish you good luck."

She hears Brad's undignified snort behind her and she doesn't bother to address it. "Why?" she asks Mike. "You haven't spoken to me for weeks."

"Well, you ran out of the gala last night before I could talk to you," Mike tells her. "Ran out with him, of all people."

"Look," Brad says. "Where she goes and with whom isn't your business anymore."

"Shut the fuck up," Mike says back. "No one asked for your commentary."

"Hey, it's my…" Brad starts to say before Ashleigh lifts both her hands and yells.

"Both of you shut up!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Charlie move across the aisle and kick the crop out of view of Wonder's stall. The filly is settling down, but she must be a nervous wreck, and Ashleigh hates both boys just a little bit for keeping her away from Wonder, who needs her far more than they do. She's silently thankful for Charlie.

"I want you to know that you're both ruining Wonder's chances right now," she snaps at both of them. Mike looks like he wants to say something, but she's in no mood to be interrupted and he keeps quiet. "She's over there freaking out and I'm over here dealing with your pissing contest."

Mike looks vaguely surprised, so she focuses in on him. "Mike, thanks for the thought, but right now I don't need it. Jim was messing with Wonder, and Brad set this up with Charlie."

"Jim?" Mike asks, genuinely confounded.

"You know," Brad says, sounding bored. "The guy on the ground. He was bleeding. That guy."

"Brad," Ashleigh warns him, looking at him over her shoulder. "Let me deal with this." He raises his hands and steps back a few paces, then goes over to rest against the shed row wall, leaving her to it.

"Ashleigh," Mike says, quietly in an effort to make it a conversation just for them when it isn't at all. Ashleigh's very aware of Brad's eyes on her back, and Charlie by Wonder's stall. She's happy for a minute for these little distractions. "I've wanted to talk to you for a while. Just, you know, in private?"

Ashleigh tucks her arms around her ribcage and suppresses a shiver, realizing that she wanted him to say something like that a while ago. She recognizes the pleading look on his face, the eagerness to rush for any sort of hope she might give him. Instead of speeding to meet him, she wants to know why now.

"You've had a while to want to talk to me in private," she says, feeling Brad's eyes on her. It's hard to say these things in front of him and Charlie, but she doesn't trust herself alone with Mike. Not yet. Not when she can still feel where he ripped out all her faith and expected her to keep on living after.

"I don't think I want to hear what you have to say," she thinks out loud, turning around to head for Wonder's stall, where Brad and Charlie are waiting for her. Charlie has walked into the filly's box already, but Brad remains outside, watching her.

"Then I'll say it here," Mike says, stopping her in her tracks. She meets Brad's eyes as she listens to Mike shift behind her, trying to come closer but unsure how close he should get. Ashleigh is trembling, her fingers shaking on her sides. She doesn't want him any closer.

"I was wrong, okay?" Mike stops before she doesn't think she can take his closeness anymore. "I was wrong to ask all of those things about Panther, and I was wrong to get pissed off when you lied about it. You…Ashleigh, you were right and I was being a dick about it. I wanted more for me and Whitebrook than for us, and I'm sorry."

Brad has that mask on while Mike speaks, and Ashleigh watches him carefully, waiting for it to slip. It never does.

"I don't expect you to accept that," Mike goes on. "And I accept that we're over. It's my mistake. I just…"

"Please stop," Ashleigh says, turning around. Mike looks like a kicked puppy, confused and alone and hoping that someone will reach out and help. Ashleigh can't be that person, and she shakes her head. "Mike, I accept your apology, but right now I really need you to go. This," she says, pointing between them, "isn't. It was never right to begin with. And that's why it ended."

"No," Mike says, shaking his head. "It wasn't all about Townsend Acres. I want you to know that, Ashleigh."

"It also wasn't about us," she insists. "It wasn't right. I know that now."

She doesn't miss the look Mike shoots over her, and she shakes her head. "It's not about him."

"I'm having a hard time believing that," Mike growls.

"Believe what you like," she says, tired of arguing. "I need to get to Wonder. Please?"

There's a little moment of time where they stare at her, and Ashleigh thinks that this would be when Mike steps across the divide and folds her up in his arms. It's when they would make up and start over and everything would be all right.

It's not what she wants, and she keeps her arms wrapped protectively around herself. She doesn't trust them, because that itch to reach out is stronger than she likes.

When Mike takes a step back, there's a little part of her that wants to cry out to him. That little innocent bit of her that refused to be tainted wants him back so badly it hurts. Ashleigh pushes it down, swallows it, and digs her fingers into her ribs as she watches him walk away.

* * *

"Dramatic," Brad says later.

"Yeah," Ashleigh agrees, prodding her shoulder with her fingers. The green and gold silks shimmer in the late afternoon light. "And to think how boring my life used to be."

At the moment, Wonder is crow hopping around the walkway with Hank desperately holding onto her head. Ashleigh feels numb, like she's about to step in front of a firing squad and there's no escape.

"How's your shoulder?" Brad asks her, and it's an effort to reply.

"I think my shoulder is the least of my worries," she says. She's already thrown up. Twice.

"You'll be fine," Charlie says with an air of calm that she's not sure how he manages. Wonder stops hopping around and struts down the walkway with her head in the air and her feet churning underneath, her nostrils blowing wide and her eyes darting wildly around the enclosed space. She's dark with sweat, and her tail snaps back and forth in agitation, spending more energy than she can afford.

The Prince, by contrast, looks perfectly calm. Ashleigh thinks it isn't fair to lose a race before it even begins.

"I think we should scratch," she says, peering up at Charlie. "She's no good today, Charlie. Jim screwed it up again. We shouldn't have set Wonder up like that. It's ruined everything."

Charlie mutters something she couldn't hear and turns to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders. "No," he says. "You're going to ride that filly today, because you're the only one we've got and you're the only one she trusts to get her through this. We don't have to worry about Jennings anymore, Ashleigh, and today we're officially restarting Wonder's career with you in her saddle. Got me?"

"Sounds good to me," Brad mutters off to the side, and Ashleigh can't help nodding with a jerk of her head.

"Okay," Charlie says with a decisive motion to Hank, who steers the rampaging filly over to them. Brad goes over to the Prince, and leaves them to it. Charlie throws Ashleigh up on Wonder's trembling back and away they go.

The Prince stumbles badly right out of the gate, smacked hard by the horse on his inside. The only reason Ashleigh sees this is because it takes effort to get Wonder past him without going down with the group. She gives the filly extra rein and screams so loud the nervous filly takes three huge jumps and goes careening up with the leaders.

It goes on like that for the rest of the race, right until the end when Wonder is a sweaty mess in front of a tiring group of colts. The only one with enough steam left to challenge her is a hard driving Prince, making up for his bad luck by flying down the last furlong.

Ashleigh scrubs at Wonder's neck, yelling and moving and giving it her all to push the exhausted filly the extra few yards. The Prince locks in with them, only inches away. She can feel his heat, and feel Craig's boot brush hers. The horses eye each other and thunder past the wire, only centimeters of noses apart in the end.

There's no telling who won, but Craig lightly claps her thigh in celebration anyway. She smiles over at him while they cool out in the turn and turn their horses for home.

When they get back to the grandstand, the crowd is just starting to quiet down and Townsend Acres is practically having a party on the track. Ashleigh leans down Wonder's shoulder to hug Charlie and shake Clay's hand. She sees her parents by the rail, waving and grinning like ecstatic fools. When the order of finish is finalized, thunder ripples through the crowd and Wonder shies so violently Ashleigh falls off and lands on her back in the dirt.

A gasp hushes through the stands, but Ashleigh only laughs up at the sky, covering her mouth with her hands as Hank strains to hold on to Wonder.

She sees Brad appear above her, looking down at her like she's a miscreant child rolling around in dirt. Ashleigh supposes she is.

"You know," Brad says, squatting down and balancing on the balls of his feet next to her head, "staying on the horse is pretty important in this line of work."

Ashleigh sits up and pushes at his chest. "I'll work on that," she says, taking the hand he offers her and rocketing to her feet when he stands up. They stand in the dirt, the Prince already stripped down and being led back to the barn. Wonder stands with Hank and flicks her ears at the noise of the stands, while everyone around them seems to hold a collected breath.

Finally, she says, "Is the Prince okay?"

"Scratches," Brad says, watching her carefully. She's worried that one or both of them will say the wrong thing, and this tenuous friendship will scatter like dust in the breeze. "He'll be okay."

"Good," she says. "I'm glad, Brad. He was amazing, you know. You should be…"

He waves her off. "Yeah, I know. Stop trying to placate me and get on the filly, will you?"

Her stomach falls. She thinks that she's made a colossal error, and it has to read on her face because he tips his head back in exasperation and says, "Ashleigh, you take everything so fucking seriously. I'll devote all of my time to beating you next year, okay? We have pictures to take."

A smile breaks out on her face and he lifts her up on the filly's back. He stands next to Wonder's shoulder during the picture, closest to Ashleigh. After the blanket of gaudy purple and yellow flowers is pulled from Wonder's neck and replaced with similarly colored sheet, he still sticks around like he's waiting for something.

Ashleigh goes to weigh in, and runs back to the winner's circle for the presentation. A presentation in which she's rewarded with a handshake and a horse.

She catches Brad's knowing smile, but it's lost to her thundering heart.

* * *

Late afternoon light slants on the track, spilling into the shed row and turning the dust motes into golden, dancing orbs. Ashleigh stands in front of Wonder's stall and soaks it in.

There will be celebrations later, but right now Ashleigh wants to revel in her victory, her astonishing turn of fortune, alone with her filly. Wonder rests her head against Ashleigh's chest while she rubs the filly's poll, speaking nonsensical words and smiling ridiculously to herself.

It feels too good to be real, and her chest is full to the point of bursting.

Giving the filly a few final pats, she pulls herself away and looks into the Prince's empty stall. The colt came out of the race with bruised knees and burned heels, but has been patched up and taken out to soak in the sun. Ashleigh wanders out of the barn and stops in the gravel lot, looking out at the grassy yard where Brad is standing with the colt.

The Prince is a polished penny on the lawn, his red coat burning gold and yellow. Brad stands next to him with his weight offset, one hand in his pocket. His tie is gone and his dress shirt is all stained with green and dirt, rolled up his arms in sloppy folds. Ashleigh watches him walk up to the colt and bend down, taking his hand out of his pocket to run his fingers down the Prince's leg and lift his hoof, inspecting it before letting the colt put it back on the ground.

Brad leans against the colt, resting his weight against the Prince's shoulder. The colt lets him, swinging his head around to nudge Brad in the knee before taking a step toward a clump of clover and reaching for the sweet leaves.

Something blooms in her like a firecracker flower glittering gold sparks, raining fire into her veins. She suddenly wants so badly that she doesn't care if a sharp fall is waiting for her. She wants to leap again, and try to fly.

Ashleigh smiles to herself and jumps into a jog, bounding over the gravel toward the horse and the boy before she can stop to calculate her course. She wants to get a running start.

"Brad!" she yells, getting his attention. He turns and she hits him head on, thinking the force of it might take him to the ground. He takes a step back, a grunt forced out of him, and she has her hands around his neck, the momentum carrying her up his body. His arm wraps around her, lifting her like she's weightless. Before she knows what's happening, she's pinned there against him, her feet inches from the ground.

She wraps her legs around his waist and he takes a few steps forward to keep up with the Prince, who has danced toward the next clump of attractive grass.

"Crazy," he says to her, and she laughs. Her heart is thumping erratically, pattering in hyper beats. He doesn't let her go, and she rests her hands on the sides of his neck, feeling him swallow under her palms.

"I wanted to say hi," she says.

He laughs, disbelieving. "Hi."

She grins and he sets her down on the grass, her hands slipping from his neck to his chest. She lets them rest there, feeling his breath and his heat. If she focuses enough she might feel his heart. "You're still high from the news," he observes.

"Oh yeah," she says, shaking her hair out of her eyes when she looks up at him. "Forever."

"You realize we're co-owners now," he tells her. "Partners in crime."

"I like that," she says. "Like Bonnie and Clyde, just without the stealing, mayhem, or bloody death."

He looks a little disturbed. "Yeah, I can handle the first two. Let's leave the bloody death part, okay?"

"I agree," she says. "We definitely have enough mayhem as it is."

"And the stealing," he says. "I think there's been a little bit of that, too."

"Oh yeah?" she says. "How do you figure?"

He looks at the Prince, but she doesn't get it. He reorganizes the lead in his hand, and she realizes he's considering what he's going to say before he says it. She wonders if they've ever thought before talking to each other before. Ashleigh's pretty sure it's just been gut instinct behind everything she's ever said to Brad.

"When Mike was in the shed row earlier," he starts, and she feels her excited little heart kick up a few extra notches. Her stomach flips over, and she's not sure if it's Brad's words or the memory of Mike. She hopes it's the former. She desperately wants it to be the former.

"He thinks I stole you," he says. He stops fiddling with the lead to look her in the eye. Her breath stops in her throat. "And I think I might have."

Her lips part, and she shakes her head. He watches her, naked emotions passing across his eyes, and she leans her weight into her hands on his chest, folding herself up there so neatly against him.

"That's ridiculous," she says, looking up at him. He puts his free hand on her side, his thumb brushing against the bottom of her ribcage. He's deliciously warm, and she can feel his heart now, thudding under her fingers. "I go where I want," she tells him. "And I want to be right here."

He doesn't say anything, and she thinks she's stolen the words right out of his mouth. It's either that or he's thinking too hard to speak, so she lets bravery and stupid, rushing adrenaline pull her up to him, catching his lips in hers for a brief kiss that moves him out of his stupor, following her retreat with his mouth.

She kisses him, arching around the hand he moves to the small of her back. They're right there in the stable yard, generating gossip the longer they go, and Ashleigh doesn't care. It's only the Prince's single-minded hunt for grass that pulls them out of it, and they move along with the colt, their legs tangling as they laugh and try to keep up.

The Prince settles into another clump of grass, clipping and chewing with hearty abandon. Ashleigh stands in front of Brad, waiting for him to say something that will keep her grounded, or push her off into thin air.

"So," he says, and she looks up at him through her bangs, lets him push the troublesome strands out of her face with the tips of his fingers. "Are we signing on for some mayhem?"

She nods, leaning into him again and resting there with her fingers soaking up the warmth of him. She licks her lips, liking how he watches.

"Definitely."

He kisses her.

She jumps off the precipice, and she soars.


End file.
